


Little Beast

by fleuravis



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Brief Credence Barebone/Gellert Grindelwald, Credence Barebone Learning Magic, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Dark Magic, Dom/sub Undertones, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Manipulation, Mirror of Erised, Mostly Canon Compliant, Multi, Nightmares, Obscurial Credence Barebone, Pining, Post-Movie 2: Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald, Safewords, Service Top, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Teasing, Torture, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-08-27 22:10:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 76,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16710970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleuravis/pseuds/fleuravis
Summary: Shortly after being rescued, Percival Graves is sent to Nurmengard to find Credence Barebone.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've gone to see the new movie three times now and i couldn't keep my filthy hands off this idea for any longer. so here we go.
> 
> this is mostly canon compliant, post-CoG. the two main differences are: the Big Reveal about credence's identity is not a thing, and queenie doesn't go with grindelwald.
> 
> thank you friends who are continuing to stick with the band AU (which will still be regularly updated until the end!) and new friends who want that good fix-it content <3 keep percival graves alive!
> 
> this thing will be updated weekly (thursdays). title from the richard siken poem by the same name.

He remembers the cold.

That’s the worst of it; the pain grows dull, and the dark… well, he hasn't feared the dark since he was a child. But the cold never stops biting, and it seeps through his rotten skin until his very bones shiver with it. Sometimes he wonders if there's nothing left of him but a skeleton, dry brittle bones scraping together, a hasty sketch of the man he used to be. If there's any skin left on him, any hair or scars or freckles, he wouldn't know it. It's the kind of dark your eyes don't adjust to; a small cruelty from Grindelwald, who keeps him in a cellar charmed to be cast in permanent gloom. 

It’s Goldstein who finds him, in the end. He nearly grovels at her feet and apologizes for years of severe underestimation. That sister of hers, the legilimens he’d always considered far more trouble than she’s worth, had tapped into one of Grindelwald’s weaker-minded followers the day MACUSA lifted the spell and he was revealed to be not their colleague Percival Graves, in fact, but the most wanted dark wizard currently alive. Because apparently, they're just the same guy with different faces. He may forgive Tina out of pure gratitude for her rescue mission, but the rest of them won't get off so easily. The man hadn’t known much, and it had taken her months to put it all together, but eventually the pieces led her straight to the cabin Graves has been locked up in.

Well, the cellar of a cabin. He still doesn’t know why Grindelwald didn’t throw him in the dungeon of his immense castle. Maybe he found the whole cabin-in-the-woods thing to be an amusing deviation — he certainly has a heart for the theatrical.

It feels strange to be back in the world above ground, daylight pouring in the immense skylight of MACUSA, where he sits like a stranger at his own desk. His chair, his pen, his floor, all tainted forever, dark magic brewing within the very molecules that bind them. He watches quietly as Seraphina glides through the room, wand raised, searching for… what? Some pieces of Grindelwald left behind? She might as well cut Graves open and root through his insides, crack his ribs apart and dig into his chest, try to cut away all the remnants of the man who’d stolen his face. Stolen his name. It's been three weeks of recovery in the best hospital they've got, and still he feels like an alien in his own body.

Apparently satisfied by her brief sweep of the room, Seraphina sighs and faces him. “I assume you’ll want a new office.”

The way she says it makes him clench his fist where it rests on the foreign desk. “I would… _appreciate_ it.”

She nods curtly. “Very well. I’ll arrange to have your affairs transferred. Another wing, perhaps.” She turns to leave, but hesitates. “Percival, I am speaking in the future tense. For when you come back.”

“What do you mean, _when I come back?_ ” He asks through his teeth. As if he has another choice. With Grindelwald on the loose again (for which he, for one, will never forgive her) he won’t sleep soundly unless he’s working towards his capture and, ideally, his execution. To hell with Graves’ personal matters; MACUSA needs him.

“I mean,” she says gently, as though she’s trying not to set him off, “you are not to take part in the search for, or capture of, Gellert Grindelwald. That is a direct order.”

He puts his face in his hands. Rubs at his weary eyes. “Seraphina, you know—”

“What I know,” she says sharply, “is that the last time I put you on the front lines to find Grindelwald, you ended up locked away for months, more familiar with the Cruciatus curse than I feel comfortable imagining. Director Graves, I may be ambitious in my efforts to keep this nation at peace, but I will not put my aurors at risk any longer. You are in a vulnerable and compromised state.” She narrows her eyes when he goes to protest. “There is nothing shameful about it, Percival. You need time to rest. There will certainly be more opportunities for you to take down dark wizards in the future. Lord knows that where magic blooms, so does violence.”

He presses his chin to the steeple of his hands and fixes his eyes on the slowly spinning lunascope on his desk. A gift, Seraphina had told him, from a man called Newt Scamander. Some sort of beast-tracker from London who’d been pivotal in Grindelwald’s capture. He’d given it to Tina, asking her to pass it on. A kind gesture; Graves doesn’t even know the man, and from the sounds of it, doesn’t know that he’d like him much. Regardless.

“Please, Percival.”

He glances up. Seraphina gives him a tight smile. “Go home.”

 

Graves isn’t oblivious to the gaping onlookers lining the place as he leaves. Young aurors and hopefuls and other low level government nobodies, all trying to catch a glimpse of the man whose body Grindelwald stole. He already feels unsteady on his feet. He keeps his head down, striding quickly down the wide steps to the front entrance, until he’s stopped dead in his tracks by Tina Goldstein.

“Director Graves, sir,” she says breathlessly. Her hair has been tossed about by the wind and she’s clutching an envelope to her chest as though her life depends on it. “Do you have a minute?”

“Not really, Goldstein,” he tells her, glancing side-eyed at the nosy crowds he’s left in his wake. “President Picquery has ordered me to leave immediately. I’m to go home and be a layabout until she lets me come back to work, apparently.”

Tina laughs, and it makes Graves like her a little more. He knows he isn’t funny.

“Listen, sir, I just—” her eyes dart nervously around the crowded lobby. Seraphina’s gold-woven portrait looms over them like a sinister watch owl. Tina lowers her voice. “I just really need to speak to you, about… about the Barebone boy.”

“The obscurial?” Graves hasn’t been told much about him, aside from the fact that Grindelwald had taken quite a liking to the boy, or at least pretended he had, simply to turn around and exploit him for his uniquely enduring obscurus. He’s only seen one photograph, grainy and unclear. The kid is unfortunate looking, hair chopped into an ugly bowl, face rather permanently downtrodden. He feels sorry that his body was used to manipulate the boy, of course he does, but he's quickly filed it away under matters that are certainly Not His Problem.

“He went with Grindelwald.” She takes a deep breath, and blinks very hard and very quickly. “We tried to stop him, we really did. We found him too late. Mr Graves, he doesn’t… he doesn’t know that it wasn’t you. That the person who betrayed him was Grindelwald. He was gone by the time the transfiguration was reversed.”

“Ah.” He doesn’t know what to say. “My apologies, Tina. I wish I could help. President Picquery has made my position quite clear. I’m not to get involved, in any small way.”

He moves to step past her, but her hand shoots out and grips his arm. She pulls it back, looking embarrassed. “Sorry, sir, but this is important,” she says urgently. “Credence is a good boy, he — he’s gentle and he’s kind and he’s very, very powerful. But Grindelwald, I mean…” She throws her hands up desperately. “He’s so manipulative and Credence is so impressionable. Grindelwald knows what he wants and how to use it against him.”

Graves feels a familiar headache knocking at his skull, ready to let itself in. “Goldstein.”

“Graves.” She clenches her jaw and stares at him defiantly. “I’m sorry, I know it wasn’t you who did it, but it was your face, and Credence is in danger. Grindelwald will use him for terrible things, I _know_ it. Please, Graves, help him.”

 

——————————————

 

The tiny, featherless bird hops up into Credence’s trembling hand, held flat against the windowsill. Its feet scratch lightly on his palm.  

“There you are,” Credence whispers. The bird’s beak opens and closes wordlessly, its round eyes pointed upwards. “When you’re strong enough to fly, I’ll set you free. Would you like that? It’s so beautiful out there, isn’t it.”

He shifts, his knees aching against the hardwood floor. He rests his head on his folded arm, gazing longingly out the wide, arched window at the mountains, so high they dip into the clouds, impossibly blue rivers winding through the forest at their base. He thinks he would like to go exploring, some day. Mr Grindelwald has not forbidden him; he hasn’t offered, either. Credence doesn’t want to ask for anything. He tries to stay quiet, most days.

But some days he can’t. Some days the bad thoughts spin into a vicious cloud inside of him and his whole body shakes until his very bones are rattling and suddenly he doesn’t have a body anymore, there is nothing, nothing but the storm that he becomes. Wild and deranged and unfocused. Mr Grindelwald keeps calling it _power_ but it doesn’t feel like power. It feels like dying.

More than anything, he wants to learn. Mr Grindelwald promised him so many things. He’d sworn to tell Credence who he really is, who he was born to be — he still hasn’t; he says he’s waiting for the proper time. A time where Credence will be able to understand, where the knowledge will help him rather than harm him. Most importantly, he'd promised to teach him to use his magic, to turn the darkness — the _obscurus —_ into something he can control and use for the _greater good_. Credence doesn’t know what that means, or how one good can be better than another. He just doesn’t want to hurt anybody anymore.

“Credence.”

His shoulders jump and he turns, legs still sprawled gracelessly on the floor, to see Mr Grindelwald in the doorway.

“Yes, Mr Grindelwald.”

The man regards him kindly, crossing the room to meet him, crouching down until their faces are level. He makes very slow and careful movements. He never startles Credence, not on purpose.

“How are you feeling, my boy?”

“I’m okay.” Credence tries to meet his eyes. It’s always difficult. One is dark, like his own, and that one isn’t as hard to look at. But the other is white, so white it almost glows, and it makes him look a little frightening. Instead, Credence fixes his gaze upon the man’s eyebrows, wispy platinum like the hair on his head, rendering him permanently expressionless.

“And how is your bird?”

“Good,” Credence says, a little breathlessly. He offers his palm, the wrinkled little bird hopping in place almost nervously. “He should be ready to fly any day, now.”

“Very good.” Mr Grindelwald puts one hand on the side of Credence’s face. Credence flinches. Every time the man touches him, all he can think about is Mr Graves. Those warm, rough palms stroking his cheeks, occasionally slipping back to hold the nape of his neck; strong arms enfolding him in their warmth in every filthy alleyway they met in like some unholy congregation, where he’d try to confess with his eyes the sinful thoughts he carried home after each meeting. If Mr Graves understood, he never said so.

“I have a gift for you, Credence. I do believe you’ve earned it.”

“A gift?” His voice is unsteady. He looks at Mr Grindelwald, wide-eyed and anxious.

“A gift,” Mr Grindelwald repeats. “A birthright. It is time for you to begin your journey to become the man you were meant to be.” He holds out his arm, and from his sleeve appears a wand: sleek, ebony-black and long, practically trembling with magic. Or maybe that’s Credence’s vision going shaky around the edges, terrified and enchanted all at once.

“Can I…”

“Take it,” Mr Grindelwald prompts. “It was crafted carefully for you by my most talented wand maker.”

Credence takes the wand firmly in his hand. He hears Mr Grindelwald whispering against his ear but he doesn’t process any words, just sound, just feeling, as he turns to the window and thrusts the wand out before him. It's graceless and inelegant but he feels the power surge through him, less of a conscious movement and more of a force rippling throughout his body, arm thrown forward. From it emerges a glowing ball of light. It hovers for a fraction of a second and then explodes through the window, a momentous crash sending shards of glass flying through the air, the light still burning, plummeting out into the early evening haze until it reaches the mountain, miles away, and finally bursts. Credence watches, legs shaking, as a piece of the mountain bigger than the castle itself is obliterated. Rock and ice and snow erupting outward.

He stands, entirely in shock, barely hearing Mr Grindelwald’s quiet _reparo,_ barely noticing as the window pulls itself back together. He feels hands on his shoulders, lips very close to his ear. 

“You are a miracle, Credence.”

He doesn’t quite know why his heart sinks at the words.

 

——————————————

 

In the end, Tina has to side-along with Graves to avoid both the wards and the guards Seraphina appointed outside of his apartment. If the president finds out he’s already working discreetly with one of her aurors on the very case she’d banned him from less than an hour ago… well. He’ll cross that bridge, Merlin forbid, if they come to it.

Tina takes the coffee he offers but refuses the spike of firewhiskey. She perches very nervously on his sofa and he smiles, a little amused, fixing himself a mug that's more alcohol than coffee.

"What's in the envelope?" He asks, gesturing to the large manilla that she's still gripping tightly in her lap.

"Oh, nothing," she smiles brightly. "Just a letter from New— from Mr Scamander. He'll be coming to New York soon." 

Graves doesn't question further. He has no interest delving into the romantic affectations of the people who work for him. Or worked for him, he supposes, now that he's on a forced indefinite leave.

“So,” he says when he finally lowers himself into the chair across from her. “What is it, exactly, that you’d like me to do?”

“Credence is at Nurmengard. That’s where… that’s where we thought you might be, until Queenie got into that fanatic’s head.” She avoids his eyes as she says it. “It’s his castle, his prison, really, where—”

“I know what Nurmengard is,” he says impatiently. “Credence is being held in a cell?”

“Credence went with him. Willingly.”

“Ah.” Graves leans back, wincing at the ache in his neck. “If he’s already fallen victim to Grindelwald’s pretty words, I doubt anybody can get him out now.”

“His mother beat him,” Tina says, and her voice is rushed. It comes out all in one breath. “She adopted him and then she beat him all his life. Taught him that magic is evil and forced him to repress it so deep that it turned into this — this _thing —_ ”  


“The obscurus, yes. I thought they couldn’t live past ten.”

“He’s powerful,” she breathes. “And that’s why Grindelwald wants him. He’s timid and afraid and very powerful. He would be so easy to break and shape into some sort of weapon. I need you to find him before that happens.”

“Why me? Why not, I don’t know, that Scamander guy?”

Tina flushes a little. “He isn’t the confrontational type. Besides, Mr Graves, you’re probably the most talented wizard I know. I don’t know that anybody else could manage it.”

“Your confidence is flattering, Tina, but—”

“There’s something else.” She cuts him off. “Mr Graves, when Grindelwald took over your identity, he fostered a relationship with Credence. I’m not sure the extent, or how often he saw him, but he’s the first person Credence ever trusted. Or, I mean to say, you are. Were. I mean, he thought it was you.” She’s getting flustered. “Regardless, the man Credence believes to be Percival Graves was the first person to show him kindness, and to touch him in any gentle or affectionate way.”

“You aren’t implying—”

“No, no,” she says quickly. “Not that I know of, at least, I — I hope not. Queenie dipped into his mind a little. Before he left with Grindelwald, I mean. Mr Graves, he… he thinks about you. Very often, and very fondly. He’s hurt, and it may be irreparable. You, or who he thinks was you, betrayed him and hurt him very deeply. But Credence is gentle and forgiving and he still thinks of you.”

Graves puts his face in his hands. The headache is back. “You’re saying you want me to break into Gellert Grindelwald’s prison and kidnap this kid because he has a crush on me?”

“Well, if you must put it that way.” Tina lets out a long-suffering sigh. “He’s a very sweet boy. He doesn’t deserve to die, or to be turned into a weapon, and those are shaping up to be his only two options. Unless…”

“Unless I disobey direct orders from the president of the Magical Congress of the United States, put my life on the line and walk right into the literal home of the evil wizard who locked me in a four by four cellar for seven months.”

“Yes,” Tina says brightly. “Precisely.”

Graves looks at her for a moment. And then he gets up from his chair, sets his mug on the kitchen counter and walks swiftly to the door.

“Okay,” he says. “Let me get my coat.”


	2. Chapter 2

Credence moves silently through the darkened hall, the ceiling so high that any brush of his clothing, any creak of the floor will echo throughout the quarters and alert everybody to his presence. It’s not that it matters, really; they know he’s there, but old habits die hard and Credence has grown accustomed to making himself into nothing.

He’s about to turn to the kitchen when a door opens.

“Credence,” Mr Grindelwald says, sounding vaguely surprised. “What are you doing awake?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Credence says nervously, hands clutched together. “Just going to get a glass of water.” 

He glances at the door, which clicks shut with a press of Mr Grindelwald’s hand. He’s never been inside that room — it’s not peculiar, there are plenty of rooms here that he hasn’t gone into — but something in the man’s expression tells him it’s significant. “What’s in there?”

Mr Grindelwald smiles and puts a hand on Credence’s head, tousling his hair, one thumb rubbing behind his ear. It’s more pacifying than comforting, but Credence leans into it anyway. 

“A gift from an old friend,” Mr Grindelwald tells him. “Nothing to concern yourself with.”

“Will you tell me about it?” Credence asks, making himself soft, smiling up at the man from under his eyelashes. Mr Grindelwald laughs quietly and squeezes at the nape of his neck. The motion sends discomfiting shivers throughout Credence’s body like a half-lit circuit.

“It’s a mirror,” he tells him. “A very special mirror that is charmed to show you precisely what you want to see. It once belonged to a friend of mine who kept it at a wizarding school, but I… acquired it recently.”

“Oh,” Credence says breathlessly. “Can I look?”

Mr Grindelwald just squeezes his nape again. “Off to bed, Credence. It’s very late.”

 

——————————————

 

Tina takes Graves to the subway station.

“Does this train go to Austria?” He asks, a little amused.

“Oh, no, you aren’t going yet,” Tina says, as if that much should have been obvious. As if she hadn’t just sat in his living room and told him this is the most downright urgent matter at hand. “I figured you’d want to see where everything happened. When you meet him, he might not be happy to see you. Grindelwald got close to him and then betrayed him, and he was wearing your face the whole time. Credence didn’t see him turn back.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that. Great.” Graves sighs, glancing around the vast underground station, people wandering in every direction. He casts a quick notice-me-not under his breath. “This is where he was killed?”

“We were all there,” Tina confirms. “We were trying to talk him down. He exploded, I guess, went on a rampage across the city, destroyed buildings and streets and…” She falters, sniffling a little. “And he was _finally_ starting to calm down and then President Picquery and her whole hit squad came storming in and ripped him apart with spells from every direction. It was… there was a horrible scream, and you could _see_ him, you could still see him in the cloud, like some kind of ghost, being torn apart by killing curses and then… and then there was just this _dust,_ these pieces floating around…” She breaks off into a sob, shoulders hunched, and Graves awkwardly puts a hand on her arm.

“Tina,” he says, as gently as he can manage. “It’s okay. He’s alive.”

“I can’t believe they did that,” she says thickly. “Just murdered him. Whether or not he survived is beside the point — that’s what they meant to do. A child. Just killed him.”

“To be fair, you did mention that he destroyed half of New York,” Graves reasons. “And didn’t he kill a no-maj?”

“Not on purpose!” Tina cries, but she isn’t doing a great job of convincing him. He can’t reconcile in his mind the sensitive, timid little boy she’s describing with the massive dark force that obliterated several square miles of the city.

“Don’t get your wand in a knot,” Graves mutters, her shrill tone grating on his already throbbing head. “So they tried to kill him. How did he survive?”

Tina shrugs. “That’s what I can’t figure out. I guess a bit of his obscurus survived and he somehow managed to rebuild himself. He shouldn’t have lived past ten, so we already know it’s very powerful. He’s nineteen, maybe twenty by now.”

“Interesting,” Graves murmurs, trying to draw to mind the small amount of research he’s done on obscurials. “So he survived and went to Europe?”

“To Paris. He joined this awful circus and I traced him there, but he got away. There was a girl with him, a girl from the circus who went with him to try to find his mother, but… he went with Grindelwald. She tried to stop him. We all did.”

“We know Grindelwald can be very persuasive. Seductive.”

Tina makes a gagging sound in her throat. “Please never mention Grindelwald seducing Credence in any form. Besides the fact that Grindelwald is an absolutely vile man, Credence is a child.”

“Twenty isn’t a child,” Graves says, and then throws his hands up defensively when she glares at him. “I’m just saying. So he left with Grindelwald and that’s all we know? He could be dead by now.”

“He isn’t. Newt knows somebody, an alchemist. Friends with his old professor from Hogwarts. He’s real into divination and he saw Credence at Grindelwald’s castle, very much alive.”

“You really think Credence is going to come with me? The person he thinks betrayed him? Gave him his first hard-on and then tossed him aside?”

“ _Mr Graves_!” Tina hisses. “Enough!”

He laughs, jumping back before she can hex him. “Joking, Tina.”

"You know you're the one who fired me, right?" She mutters. "And sentenced me to death, I should add."

"Unfair," he reminds her. "Wasn't actually me."

"Yeah, but I  _thought_ it was."

"And yet you couldn't figure out that maybe that wasn't the real Percival Graves? Merlin's beard, he's only the most evil, fanatical wizard alive, must be an easy mistake to make."

"Maybe it says something about you."

Graves rolls his eyes. "Go on, Tina, as though I haven't heard all of this before."

Tina affixes him with a wry smile, but there's a hint of fondness in her face. Graves knows she's always liked him, and part of him does feel guilty that it was his voice  — albeit, speaking the words of an absolute maniac — that dared to sentence her to death. Tina Goldstein, likely the most compassionate auror he's ever known, sometimes blindingly so. Sometimes cripplingly so.

That reminds him of something, and he frowns. "Hey — you never told me  _why_ I fired you."

Tina chews on her lip and looks out at the tracks where the underground train is screeching to a halt several yards away. "I went after Credence's mother, that despicable Second Salem woman. Attacked her, I guess. She was beating him with his own belt, Graves. It made me sick."

"And Picquery let me fire you?" He's more than a little surprised. Tina may not be their most skilled auror, but she's certainly useful, and Seraphina's nothing if not keen on keeping useful people around.

"It was in front of a whole meeting of her followers," Tina says ruefully. "They all had to be obliviated. It was... a whole thing."

"Ah." He pats her on the shoulder again, and she quirks one eyebrow at him. She knows he's not the nurturing type, and she'd likely be more comfortable if he backed off entirely. So he does, clearing his throat. "Well, you did a good thing, Tina. If I had been myself, and not trapped ten feet underground in a cellar, I may have argued in your defence."

"Thanks, sir," she smirks. And then she heads to the stairs back out into the city, gesturing for him to follow. “Newt — Mr Scamander, I mean, is going to help you cross to Europe unnoticed. We’re to meet him on Thursday afternoon. Can I trust you not to change your mind?”

Graves straightens his shoulders and gives her a tight smile. “I give you my word.”

 

——————————————

 

It’s late in the evening when Credence slips off down the hall. Mr Grindelwald is busy in his office and has made it clear that Credence is not to disturb him. He reaches the door and stalls, feeling suddenly uneasy, as if it’s all a test and the man will appear at any moment to punish him for his disobedience.

But nothing happens when he pushes on the door. It just makes a low creaking sound and slowly swings open, revealing a dark room: vacant, except for a tall form in the center covered entirely in a heavy black sheet. Credence quietly shuts the door behind himself, smoothing a hand against the cool wood, and then he pads over to pull the sheet down from what reveals itself to be an ornately carved frame around a tall, glimmering mirror.

The sheet falls away and Credence loses his breath.

He sees himself in the mirror, except he’s bright and smiling and standing tall — not hunched, not twitchy, not trying to hide himself. Standing by his side is Mr Graves, in his beautiful coat with the long tails, that soft blue scarf around his neck, the one Credence’s nose used to press into every time Mr Graves hugged him. The scorpion pins at his collar glitter under some unseen source of light. Mr Graves used to let Credence touch them with his grimy, undeserving fingers, tracing the shining jewels while his eyelashes fluttered against the man's cheek. He's hit by a surge of sensory memories, too vivid to bear. Credence’s heart drops as he watches Mr Graves smile and wrap his arms so lovingly around his waist. He holds him from behind, encircling him, pressing his chin down onto Credence’s shoulder. Credence-in-the-mirror looks happy and warm. Credence’s breath hitches and he begins to cry.

Low sobs emerge from deep in his throat, spilling over as Mr Graves tips his head and kisses Credence’s cheek, lips trailing along his jaw, hands tightening on his waist. Credence falls to his knees before the mirror, holding himself like he’s going to break apart and spill from the seams, and maybe he will. It wouldn’t be the first time. But he stays solid, letting himself weep and weep, unable to tear his eyes away from the image before him. 

With one shaking hand he reaches out, fingertips pressing up against the cool glass of the mirror, and then his reflection is gone and it’s just Mr Graves, kneeling down as well, lowering himself until they're eye to eye and reaching one hand out to meet Credence's.

“Credence,” he says, and it’s such a low and gentle sound that Credence wonders whether it’s coming from inside his own head. He startles, gaping, getting closer to the mirror, peering at Mr Graves. 

“Mr Graves,” he whimpers, both palms flat to the mirror now, and they’ll leave greasy prints and Mr Grindelwald will be angry but he can’t bring himself to care, not now, not with Mr Graves in front of him with so much tenderness in his eyes. Credence nearly melts when the man mirrors his position, hands rising up to press against the glass in Credence’s prints, smiling sadly. Credence can almost feel the warmth of skin on skin, the lines of their palms matching up. Two souls, cut from identical cloth.

“I love you, Credence,” Mr Graves says. “It’s going to be okay.”

Credence tips his forehead against the lustrous glass, entire body shaking with his sobs, tears trickling down across his hollow cheeks and dripping to the floor. Mr Graves keeps his hands out, reaching toward him, and Credence just wants to touch him, just wants to be held, just—

“Credence.”

He whips around, half-sprawled on the floor. Mr Grindelwald is in the doorway, concern swelling rapidly on his face when he sees Credence. “What’s wrong, my boy?”

Credence just shakes his head, curling up, pressing his face into his knees.

“I’m sorry,” he says, words muffled against the rough material of his pants. “I’m sorry for disobeying you.”

And then Mr Grindelwald is in front of him, kneeling down, fingers in his hair. He pets him like a cowering dog, with all of the gentleness and none of the feeling. “It’s quite alright, my boy. You can see I only hesitated to let you in here for your own sake. Men have wasted away in front of this mirror, presented with their deepest desires… you know it isn’t real, Credence.”

Credence nods, relaxing a little into Mr Grindelwald’s touch.

“Very good. May I take you to bed?”

Reluctantly, Credence raises himself to his feet, casting one last longing look at the mirror before Mr Grindelwald covers it once more with the sheet. He trails behind him out the door, heading toward his own room.

“Come with me,” Mr Grindelwald murmurs, one guiding hand on the small of his back, leading him down the hall. Credence goes, because he has no other choice. They enter Mr Grindelwald’s room and the door shuts behind them with a wave of the man’s wand. 

Mr Grindelwald presents him with nightclothes and steps inside of the ensuite bathroom. “Get undressed, my boy. I want you to sleep well.”

Credence changes as quickly as he can, Mr Grindelwald’s presence terrifying and electric even from behind a locked door. He stalls in the centre of the room, staring at the perfectly-made bed. The covers are intricately woven, midnight-colored with golden embroidery of the sun and the moon and all of the stars. Credence bides his time, counting every one of them. When Mr Grindelwald emerges, he smiles invitingly and gestures to the bed. “Make yourself comfortable, darling.”

His legs shake when he gets into bed, curling up at the very edge, pulling the blankets over himself and shivering even then. He feels the mattress dip as Mr Grindelwald gets in beside him, shifting over and reaching for Credence’s waist, pulling him kindly but firmly to rest back against his chest.

“Mr Grindelwald?” He says nervously, his voice nearly lost to the hum of the ceiling fan above them.

“Yes, my boy?”

“When will it be time?”

Mr Grindelwald knows what he’s talking about; Credence has no doubt about it. He’s been pestering him as discreetly as possible since the man brought him here, carried on promises of a story, a past, a meaning behind his puny existence. But he’s given up no such thing, and the box he’s spoken of so vaguely, the box containing Credence’s records, has still not been relinquished.

“When it is time,” Mr Grindelwald says, “I will tell you.”

His grip tightens around Credence’s body. Credence feels tears burning in his eyes as he drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, grindelwald finessed the mirror of erised from dumbledore. the scene with credence at the mirror was inspired by [THIS](http://afraid-of-thunder.tumblr.com/post/158595431495) beautiful piece of art, which makes me cry every time i look at it.
> 
> i don't know if in canon you can hear things from the mirror? i mean everything you see comes from inside your head anyway. i think sound can be projected from that place of desire as well. that's magic, baby!
> 
> credence has been deeply hurt by "graves" betraying him, but first love is difficult to shake, so he's got a lot of conflicting things there. grindelwald is just The Worst Ever.
> 
> thank you all for the sweet response to the first chapter! i appreciate all your kudos and comments more than i can ever say. <3 i just finished writing chapter 14, so the fic is almost complete and will keep updating on thursdays!
> 
>  
> 
> [here is the post for this chapter on tumblr! reblogs always appreciated :)](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/180621814765/read-chapter-2-of-little-beast-on-ao3-credence)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is a very long chapter for all you wonderful people. i've been dying to share this one.
> 
> thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos, they mean the world <3

Graves meets Newt Scamander for the very first time on the edge of a cliff.

“Portkey,” he explains, gesturing to the rusty bucket stationed at the feet of a very unfriendly-looking man. “It wasn’t cheap, but Tina told me you’d like to avoid the attention of MACUSA.”

“He’ll pay you back!” Tina chimes in.

“Will I?” Graves mutters, but he keeps his eyes on the bucket. Not nearly an ideal mode of transportation, but he knows that Seraphina likely has him flagged at every international border. She’ll never really believe he’s content to stay home. She knows him better than that. “Are you two… Uh. Are you planning on joining me?”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Newt says, his voice perpetually cheerful. “I’m quite sure Grindelwald has convinced Credence that we’re working with the government to kill him. After what your colleagues did to him, he’ll certainly believe it.”

“Right. Okay.” He goes to walk away but turns back. “So to get this straight, you’re asking me to get in this bucket and be transported, hopefully, to Austria and then just break into Grindelwald’s prison?”

Newt squints at him. “Well, we’ve got a bit that can help. A friend of Albus Dumbledore’s, a man called Flamel, saw in his crystal ball that Credence will be alone there tonight. Grindelwald has business to attend to in Sweden, apparently, so that’s where we’re headed. We’re working with the British Ministry.”

“Completely alone? Doesn’t Grindelwald keep a pretty tight-knit gang?”

“His closest followers will be with him in Sweden. We have to presume the building is heavily guarded, of course—”

“That’s where this comes in.” Tina holds up a small flask, silver and gleaming under the blinding midday sun.

“Polyjuice?”

“Abernathy.”

“ _Abernathy_? What about him?” The man’s name alone is enough to give Graves a headache.

“He’s with Grindelwald now. We managed to pull some hair from his old office. He generally travels with Grindelwald, but we’re going to take our chances here and assume the door will let you in regardless. There’s barely enough to last you twenty minutes, but if you drink it right before you go in it should be enough to get you past anyone who might be watching.”

“That is, as long as there aren’t any extra wards we’re unaware of,” Newt adds.

Graves smiles wryly. “So if there are, I’m just fucked. Got it.”

Tina looks flustered again. “Mr Graves—”

But he makes his way over to the bucket, the ill-tempered guard staring him down. It stands in wait right at the brink, some kind of edge-of-the-world nightmare, mist rising up from below, sea spilling into endless sea four thousand feet down. The sky looks grey and washed-out, like it should be cold even though it isn’t.

Before Graves steps into the bucket, he turns back. “Thank you for the lunascope, Mr Scamander. And Tina…” She tilts her head, smiling at him sadly. He works his mind around his next words like fingers at a puzzle, yet he can’t seem to get them right. So he just nods. “Thank you for everything.”

And then he steps in and is swirled away into the abyss.

 

——————————————

 

Credence is counting in his head, slowly, from one to one hundred and then back down again. He’s folded at Mr Grindelwald’s feet while the man sits in his chair, one hand hand tracing along an enchanted map. The pictures move, mountains rising up when he drags his fingers across them. Credence tries to quietly crane his neck to see.

Mr Grindelwald’s other hand is in Credence’s hair, stroking idly. Credence leans his head against the man’s knee. It feels good, like when Mr Graves used to do it, in the dark alleyways and dimly lit diners when it was late and nobody else was around to see. He used to have dreams about sitting with him like this: Mr Graves, so powerful and elegant and well-postured, sitting in a beautiful, ornate armchair; himself, baby-small and tucked comfortably in the shadow of his protection. Never in bed, never curled together, he didn’t dare — Credence at Mr Graves’ feet, that was safe to imagine. He never quite found the nerve to picture them on equal ground.

Because Mr Graves always reminded him of something indefinable, some kind of twisted father figure, an arm outstretched for something he never had, as infallible as it was unattainable. Somebody who held him always a single second shy of how long he wanted, who sent him home to his mother with awful, wicked thoughts stirring deep in his core. He always made Credence want to be very small. To be folded and hidden and kept somewhere safe. Mr Graves handed Credence the shiny promise of a brand new life filled with magic, filled with the pleasure of being held, being cared for, having his face touched and his palms healed over. The things he wants have always seemed so simple, and yet all at once so desperately impossible.

“I’ll only be gone a few days, my boy,” Mr Grindelwald murmurs. “I would take you with me, but it is too dangerous yet. Once I’ve taught you how to properly use your wand then you may accompany me on these ventures.”

Credence just nods, his cheek brushing the rough material of Mr Grindelwald’s pants. He shudders when the man’s hand trails down to squeeze gently at his nape. His palms flatten on the hardwood floor. “You will stay in the castle, Credence. No running off, now. I wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

“Yes, sir,” Credence says softly. 

Sometimes, his mind goes blissfully blank when he’s being touched. With a hand sunk into his hair, or cupping his face, or cradling the back of his neck, he can silence the burgeoning thoughts that invade his head so easily. He used to flinch when anybody reached for him — hands scared him, as did belts — but Mr Graves taught him softness and reception in those grimy alleyways, taught him to allow himself tenderness, to not shrink away from a thumb at his jaw, lips against his ear.

All too quickly the contact is gone and Mr Grindelwald is up on his feet, map tucked away in the pocket of his long coat, striding toward the door. His days are so busy, of course, planned down to the very minute; still, Credence feels oddly bereft, head going unpleasantly light at the sudden abandonment. 

From the doorway, Mr Grindelwald smiles at him like a shark scenting blood. Credence thinks he might hate him, if he didn’t need him so badly.

“Anything you need, Credence,” he tells him. “Remember.”

The pendant burns against his chest. Credence twitches. “Yes, sir.”

And then Mr Grindelwald is gone, swept off in a flurry of movement, a spiral of dark air. Credence will never get used to the abruptness of it, the way he can be here and then gone in an instant. The room feels so much quieter without him in it. 

Credence leans back against the leg of the chair and looks out at the endless world of snow-capped mountains, picturesque and so very unreachable behind the flat plane of glass. The sudden thought comes to him that it could all be imaginary — the mountains, the valleys, the streams stretching out into an eventual blur of white fog. Mr Grindelwald could have used magic on all the windows, made a fake world outside, and Credence would never know the difference. He doesn’t go out there.

He gets up on unsteady legs, aching somewhat from the unforgiving floor, and goes timidly to the window, hesitance drilled into his careful body even when there’s nobody there to punish him. He cranks the handle, the two panes opening out, a cool breeze fluttering in and ruffling his hair. The wind must be real — or must it? He supposes anything could be made with magic. There are so many things he doesn’t know.

He climbs up onto the windowsill on his knees, steadying himself with hands clutching white-knuckled on the edges of the frame, legs shaking just a little. The cold feels good on his face. He looks down and his stomach sinks very slowly. If he dropped, he would certainly die. He doesn’t know any magic to break his fall. Maybe he could turn into the obscurus, but he may be too deep in shock to switch fast enough and he must be nearly a mile from the ground, farther still if he rolls down the slope. He leans forward out the window, knees scooting forward, until his body is out in the air, in the world, in —

The pendant on his chest burns again, an electric shock, a sharp burst of heat against his skin. He cries out and tumbles backward into the room, knocking his head on the floor, curling onto his side and digging his nails into his arm. The burn subsides and he breathes hard, alone on the floor, heart beating loud enough that it echoes in his hollow chest.

Magic. Of course it’s magic.

He picks himself up and cranks the window closed, staring longingly out at the impossibly blue sky. He misses his bird. He set him free this morning, out into the open air, his half-grown wings finally strong enough to carry him. Mr Grindelwald’s hand squeezed Credence's shoulder as they watched him disappear into the dusty blue sky. Credence had cried, quiet and pitiful, and Mr Grindelwald left the room.

Credence scratches at the back of his neck, where his short-cropped hair is just beginning to grow out. He's hungry. It’s not that he isn’t used to it — he spent eighteen years starving out his sins at Ma’s behest, living on fractions and throwaways, scraps of scraps, body eating itself constantly, feasting on whatever meager bits were left after the obscurus took its dues. Claws twisting at the core of him while he made sure Modesty had her fill before he allowed himself a single bite. By then it was usually too late. He’d be dragged off to bed, by the arm or the hair or, if Ma was feeling especially cruel, the shell of his ear. 

_Ungrateful brat,_ she would seethe, tugging hard and ruthless at whatever part of him she managed to clench in her small but savage hand.

And then it was days, weeks with no dinner. The kind of hunger that crawls up your throat and burrows among the folds of soft tissue, the kind that leaks into your blood and makes you forget things and fall asleep too easily.

He should be thankful, really, for what Mr Grindelwald gives to him. He gets two meals a day, but if he’s hungry in between he has to ask, and he never asks. He knows better than that. The food is rich and warm but it seems that every time he begins eating, Mr Grindelwald remembers something desperately important that Credence must do, and then he’s swept away from his plate after only a few bites. 

He clutches at his stomach, wondering if he can figure out magic to open the locked kitchen doors. 

( _For safety,_ Mr Grindelwald had murmured, a flick of his wand sending the heavy wooden doors shut with a decisive _click._

Credence’s stomach had quivered with need.)

The door creaks open and Credence startles, spinning on his heel. 

“Mr Abernathy? I thought you were going with—”

“Credence?”

Credence freezes. Mr Abernathy sounds different. His face is moving, contorting, and then his head is jerking in an awful way, and Credence steps back, clutching at the windowsill, eyes wide as Mr Abernathy’s face appears to be yanked in all different directions. Something is… changing.

“Mr Abernathy?” Credence repeats, and his voice is barely even a whisper. The man’s hands are over his face, but they’re different. His body is different. Credence tilts his head, watching as he slowly reveals himself.

And then he bolts.

“Credence!”

“No, no, no, not you,” Credence sobs, and he’s scrambling across the room, trying to get to the door, but the man lunges at him and they topple to the ground together, one loud thud, Credence’s head hitting the hardwood floor for the second time and sending him into a daze of sparkling lights behind his eyelids, vision pulsing in time with his jackhammer heart. And he fights every urge that lights up instinctively to show his belly, to stop struggling, to fall back into his easy submission to the man above him who’s pinning down his flailing limbs, trying to hold him still.

The man.

Mr Graves.  


 

——————————————

 

“Credence,” Graves breathes, “I need you to listen to me.”

“No,” he whispers, eyes squeezed shut, shaking his head side to side like he’s struggling in a fitful sleep. The boy’s got a face full of nightmares, and Graves doubts anybody’s been singing him lullabies. “No, please let me go, please…”

“Credence, it’s okay, I—”

Credence’s eyes snap open and Graves nearly reels back with shock. He keeps hold of the skinny wrists he’s got pinned to the floor but it’s useless: Credence is evaporating, leaking black smoke, eyes going white and misty, and suddenly he explodes. 

It doesn’t hurt. Credence’s obscurus doesn't burn him where it touches his skin, or slice into him; it simply shoots up into the air and hovers there, not angry, but afraid. Graves falls back on his heels, looking up curiously at the dark cloud of Credence that hangs above his head, circling slowly in a quiet kind of chaos.

Graves pulls his wand from his sleeve, cautious and nonthreatening, and drops it on the floor. He puts his hands up, keeping his eyes on Credence the entire time. 

“I’m not going to hurt you, Credence. Will you please come down?”

Slowly, slowly, the tendrils of dark smoke flow towards the floor, spiralling into a hunched shape, finally turning back into the trembling, pallid boy. Staring at Graves with jumbled fear and bewilderment, as though he hadn’t expected kindness. Graves supposes he would have no reason to.

Credence’s face has sharp bones, hungry bones, the kind you see on orphans in the street, the little scraps of nothing that blend so easily into grimy walls and run-down shop fronts. There’s something feral to the way he folds his body together, hunched and shaking like a wounded animal, all at once shying from touch and yearning for it. Though most of him looks young, sorrow hangs heavy in his eyes — permanently red-rimmed and painted lilac underneath, the melancholy of old age already sunken into black irises. He’s marked up around the hands and wrists and Graves averts his eyes. He can hear Tina’s voice ringing in his ears: _his mother beat him. All his life._

Graves wonders if Credence can tell the difference between Graves-before and Graves-now. Between a shell filled with darkness and violence and power-lust and what he is today, which he fears is not much less of a shell, only hopefully it’s filled with something a little kinder, a little less venomous. There’s no hint of recognition either way; Credence stares at him half like a stranger and half like an enemy. 

“Why are you here,” Credence says, and his voice is scratchy and weak. “Why did you come.”

He doesn’t say it like a question; likely, he’s not used to getting answers.

“There’s so much I need to explain,” Graves says, wincing a little. “I know nothing makes sense right now, and I’ll have to start from the beginning. But first I need to get you out of here.”

Credence frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I need to get you out of Gellert-fucking-Grindelwald’s evil lair,” Graves hisses. “Merlin’s beard, this is a rescue mission!”

“I’m not leaving with you, Mr Graves,” Credence says slowly, like it’s a foregone conclusion, like Graves is hopelessly obtuse and should know this already. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

_Sensitive,_ Tina had told him. _Gentle. Kind._ She hadn’t mentioned impossibly stubborn. _He thinks fondly of you._ Oh, does he now?

“Credence,” Graves says through his teeth. “I don’t want to take you by force, but if I must, I will. Grindelwald is not your friend. He is using you. He wants to turn you into a weapon, or so I’m told.”

“Why should I trust you?” Credence asks, jaw set defiantly. “You used me too, Mr Graves. You hurt me. Why are you any better?”

“What if I told you it wasn’t me? That I’ve never met you before?”

Credence gives him a strange look. “What?”

This is nothing like how he’d imagined it would go — he’d envisioned a very weak and timid boy, too afraid to even speak, taking his hand and allowing himself to be led to safety. Later, by the fireplace in some secluded cafe, or maybe even back in the comfort of his home, Graves would sit Credence down and explain what had happened. The boy would forgive him, of course, and then Graves’ conscience would be clear to pass him off to Goldstein and the Scamander man to do with him what they will. But now he’s here with this little ball of anger, this boy who may not be physically intimidating but certainly has eyes full of all kinds of fire, and he clearly isn’t leaving without an explanation.

Graves rubs at his temples, silently cursing Tina for making him be the one to do this. “Gellert Grindelwald imprisoned me for seven months and during that time he used magic to walk around with my body, my voice. My life. I never met you, Credence. I don’t know you at all.”

“Oh.” Credence suddenly looks very small. His face twists into a sad sort of grimace, his hands clenched together so hard it looks painful. Like they’re grasping for words, trying to find some way to explain away this revelation. “So it… it was him all along?”

“Yes.” The way that Credence’s face is pinched up, looking as confused as it is heartbroken, makes Graves feel inexplicably guilty for telling the truth. As though he should apologize for Grindelwald making a home of his body, apologize for not being the man that Credence so desperately wants him to be. That man doesn’t exist, and he watches as the realization of that fact dawns on Credence’s mournful little face, every awful, heart-wrenching second of it. Graves takes one tentative step forward, reaching out toward him. “I’m sorry, Credence. I understand that you were… attached.”

Credence jumps back like Graves pulled a wand on him. Graves looks on in alarm as Credence starts leaking from the sleeves and collar of his shirt, hands gone and replaced once again by wisps of dark smoke. He’s shaking violently, jaw working, face pointed to the floor. He stands pigeon-toed, his body looking awkward and unnatural, and his face starts to break off into curling, shattering smoke. Graves takes one second to appreciate the sight, rather in awe of the way he so easily fades in and out of his obscurus, and then backs off, hands out, palms up in surrender.

“I’m sorry, Credence,” he repeats. “Please, try to calm down. You're going to be okay. I didn't mean to upset you. I’m just as confused as you are.”

Credence wraps his arms around himself as his face starts to reform. His hands are solid again, pearly white and long-fingered, digging into his elbows. He doesn’t look up when he speaks.

“You don’t know anything about me? About what happened?”

“I don’t,” Graves says, as gently as he can manage. “You’ll have plenty of time to tell me everything if you come with me.”

“He knows who I am, Mr Graves. He knows about my past, about my real parents…” Credence’s voice dies off and he looks away, blinking fast. “I need to know. I’ve given up everything just to know. I can’t go back now."

“Credence,” Graves says, keeping his voice steady. “I swear to you, on my life, whatever information Gellert Grindelwald has about your past I will find and I will hand it to you on a silver platter. He is not a good man. He’s using you. Why would he not have given it to you in all the time you’ve been here? Think, Credence. Because he isn’t finished with you yet. He will exploit you and he will make you do terrible things and then he will throw you away, just like he did when he wore my face and my body.” 

He reaches into his pocket and fumbles for the folded piece of newspaper he’d brought along with him. The headline reads _Director of Magical Security found alive after imprisonment by Gellert Grindelwald, Grindelwald escapes again._ Beneath the bold-print words there are two moving photographs: Grindelwald, leering at the camera from the subway tracks, arms bound behind his back, and Graves, looking rather weary, wearing a terse smile at some formal event he’d attended shortly before his capture.

Credence looks blankly at the page for a moment, eyes fixed on the animated photographs. Graves watches his own face grimace in a never ending loop, upside down from where he stands a careful distance away from the boy. Credence looks up. “This is real?”

“One hundred percent. I don’t know you, Credence, but I have no desire to see you turned into an evil puppet for Grindelwald and then discarded. I’m sorry to be harsh, but in all likelihood he’ll never give up your papers and he’ll kill you once you’ve served your purpose.”

Credence stares at him, looking surprisingly unaffected by the words. Graves feels every muscle in his body tensing up. Finally — 

“Okay.”

He lets out a slow breath of relief, closing his eyes for a second. Credence’s voice is still petulant, the sharp angles of his body relentlessly stubborn, but Graves lets it slide, because they need to go and they need to go now. Really, they need to be out of here an hour ago. “Okay. Is there a way we can safely get out? Who’s in the castle right now?”

“There shouldn’t be anyone in this wing,” Credence tells him. “That’s why I was surprised when I thought… you know. Mr Abernathy. Was that the same spell Mr Grindelwald used on you?”

“Gellert prefers a very special brand of dark magic. I used a simple polyjuice potion.” Graves waves off the question. They’re wasting precious time, time they never had to begin with; they can sort through all of the muddled details later. “So we’re really in the clear to just walk out?”

Credence casts his eyes downward, front teeth chewing his lower lip raw at this point. “I don’t think I can leave the building. It burns me.” He reaches into his shirt and pulls out a dull metal pendant, hanging heavy from a cord around his throat. The symbol of the Deathly Hallows — Merlin’s beard, he should have known. 

“He gave that to you?”

Credence sucks in a breath. “Well, you did. I mean, when he was you. When you were him.” He looks up hopefully. “You — he told me to touch it if I ever needed help and he would come. And I kept it, um, after they tried to kill me. And then when I came here, he told me it’s a very important symbol and he put a charm on it. But I guess he just left the spell that was already there. Does this make sense?”

Graves nods slowly, his irritation melting into something more sympathetic at the half-confused, half-crushed look on the boy’s face. “It’s had the same enchantment all along. He just pretended I had given it to you, pretended to put his own enchantment on it. Is that right?”

“Yes,” Credence says, sounding relieved at Graves’ understanding. “Right. But if I try to leave…”

“…it burns you.”

Of course. Of _course_ it wouldn’t be that easy to saunter into fucking Nurmengard and whisk Gellert Grindelwald’s prized pet away with him. There’s most certainly a tracking device on the thing, and likely some kind of alert sent straight to Grindelwald if the necklace is removed. But if he's busy taking over the world or exterminating no-majes or whatever it is he’s doing in Sweden right now, he may not be able to apparate back immediately…

On the days leading up to his departure, Graves had worked the math tirelessly in his head, running through every variable, playing out their escape in a series of single movements. Still, he’s been blindsided before, and it’s not just him this time — now he’s got a wildly unpredictable and rather volatile boy to drag along with him, one who still doesn’t seem all that enthusiastic about leaving. 

There are hundreds of ways this could go horribly wrong. Graves runs a hand through his dishevelled hair and wonders how the hell he got himself in this position in the first place.

“We’ll get down to the door and then I’ll take the necklace off of you. We’ll drop it and run and I’ll apparate us out of here the moment we get far enough. We'll be an ocean away by the time he even notices. Okay?”

Credence shifts nervously from foot to foot. “If he catches me…”

_Then I’m dead. Maybe you will be, too._

“He won’t,” Graves says firmly. “I promise. Are you ready now? Is there anything you need?”

Credence looks longingly at the window for a moment and then shakes his head. “No. I’m ready.”

With that, Graves spins on his heel and hurries down the hall, back toward the front door. The hallways are vacant, silent, not even a house elf puttering around. Grindelwald must be even more protective of the boy than he thought, locking him away where nobody can get near him, hidden in this vast castle like Rapunzel in the high tower.

Graves strides confidently down the center of the hall while Credence slinks in the shadows, keeping to the walls, casting nervous glances at Graves every once in a while. So very good at not being seen. Graves does his best to make his smile reassuring.

When they reach the door, he pulls out his wand. To his surprise, Credence pulls one out as well.

“Where did you get that?” Graves asks, more than a little alarmed.

Credence falters. “Mr Grindelwald.”

“Throw it away. It’s probably being tracked.”

Credence looks crestfallen. He cradles the wand in his hands for a moment, staring at it with something like reverence before he carefully bends down and places it on the floor. Then he straightens up, pulling his shoulders down, facing Graves. “Will you take it off? If I touch it…”

Wordlessly, Graves points his wand at the necklace, careful to direct his magic to the cord rather than the pendant. Slowly, carefully, he lifts it from where it rests on Credence’s sharp collarbone, up along his neck—

Abruptly, the thing shoots back and tightens. It ties itself around Credence’s throat and his hands float up, scrabbling at the thick cord, eyes bulging. His mouth opens uselessly, gaping like a fish out of water while the cord digs into the ghost-white skin of his throat. Graves panics.

He tries to abort his lifting spell, but the necklace keeps choking Credence. The boy stumbles and falls backwards, hitting the floor hard, spit dribbling from the corner of his mouth as he makes wretched sounds, struggling for air that isn’t there.

“ _Finite_!” Graves cries desperately. “Fuck, fuck—”

Credence goes limp and all at once, the necklace stops. He gasps for air, chest heaving, eyes still wide and fixed on the high ceiling above him. He’s sprawled out on his back, shirt half-untucked, and Graves keeps a safe distance until he finally props himself up on unsteady arms.

“Are you okay?” He asks gently.

Credence nods, rubbing absently at his neck. “I can’t take it off.” His voice is hoarse and scrapes through his throat. He slowly raises himself to his feet again and then looks up at Graves with a shaky smile. “I guess I believe you for real now.”

“We have to figure out a way to get it off,” Graves mutters. “There’s got to be something. We should go through his books, maybe he has it written down somewhere…”

“Wait,” Credence says, and his voice cracks halfway through the word. Graves can almost hear the boy’s heart stuttering in his chest. “You mean we’re going to stay here? Look through his things? Mr Graves, I don’t think—”

“There’s no other option, Credence. You can’t leave, it’ll either burn you or strangle you. We need to figure something out.”

And so they end up in Gellert’s office, balking in the shadow of his impressively tall bookshelf. Credence’s hands keep rubbing up and down his own arms like he’s cold or itchy and it’s driving Graves insane. He nearly snaps at him but remembers the delicate and woeful look in his eyes and reminds himself that Credence has enough wounds; Graves doesn’t need to give him any more.

Besides, as remarkable as the obscurus may be, Graves has no desire to see it lash out in any serious way.

“I don’t know if we should do this,” Credence says, hands still locked to his elbows, a portrait of discomfort. “I don’t think it’ll work, I—”

“Nonsense. Counter-curses,” Graves says clearly, holding up both hands. “Counter-spells. Counter-charms. Curse removal. Deathly Hallows. Pendant.”

Credence watches curiously, staying quiet as books begin to float from the shelves, landing in a neat pile on the desk before him. In the end, they’re presented with seven thick books, heavy hardcovers speckled with dust and faded with age.

“Alright,” Graves breathes, coughing a bit as dust rises up from the books and into his airway. “Let’s get to it. Um, just take one and check the glossary, maybe, or the table of—”

“I don’t know how to read,” Credence says abruptly. And then he stares at the floor. 

Graves feels the multitude of implications settle in the air around them. A lifetime of petty humiliations, as though he’s reading them straight out of Credence’s head: a mother’s unfettered hatred, the raw cruelty of other children, the ignorance of strangers in shops who spew vile judgements simply because he was never taught, simply because he doesn’t _understand —_

“I’m sorry, Credence. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay.” His voice sounds very small. 

“I’ll look through the books,” Graves says gently. “You just keep watch.”

For hours, Graves pores over the yellowing pages of Grindelwald’s books. He finds plenty of counter curses, plenty of information on how to un-charm people — but frustratingly little on cursed or charmed objects. He’s dipping into the sixth book when he glances over to see Credence asleep on the plush armchair, curled up, arms wrapped around himself and head tipped forward onto his bent knees. Graves smiles. It doesn’t look very comfortable, but he seems peaceful enough.

Realization clicks in and he drags his eyes up to the clock on the wall. It’s nearly midnight. How long has he been here? And how long did Newt and Tina say Grindelwald would be gone for? His mind is so foggy from lack of sleep and a proper meal that he can’t seem to remember. His head feels like it’s lined with cotton batting, the low hum of sleeplessness returning to his ears. 

“Hey, Credence,” he whispers, nudging the boy gently. “Wake up.”

“Hm?” Credence wakes with a little start, eyes snapping open.

Graves pets a hand down his arm. “When did Grindelwald say he’d be back?”

“Few days,” Credence mumbles. “Is it night time?”

“It’s night time. I’m almost done. I… I haven’t found anything yet.”

Credence just nods, looking sad but resolute. “Mr Graves, if you need to go…”

“I’m not leaving you,” Graves says, a little more forcefully than he’d intended. Credence just blinks at him, and then at the hand still rested on his arm. Graves quickly takes it away. “Besides, Tina and Newt would skin me alive if I showed up without you.”

Credence’s eyes widen. “Tina and Newt? They…”

“They don’t want to hurt you,” Graves tells him quickly. “If that’s what Grindelwald told you. They only want to help you. They’re the ones who sent me here.”

He turns back to the book, flipping a few more pages and beginning to read about magic-draining spells. He’s so exhausted that the words are starting to blur together, and he’s having a hard time uncrossing his eyes every time they shift out of focus. He rubs at them, hard, until he sees little fireworks and floaters swimming behind his eyelids. The tiny printed text grows incrementally clearer, and Graves squints at it.

“When the necklace was choking you,” he says, not looking up from the page he’s scanning. “You didn’t turn. I mean, you didn’t become the obscurus.”

“Oh. That.” Credence drums his fingers nervously on the arm of the chair. “I don’t know why, Mr Graves. Sometimes when I’m being… hurt, I want to change, and I try but I can’t. Or it happens a bit but it always pulls back. Once when Ma was hitting me it was so bad that I tried to turn over but I couldn’t.”

“Hm.” Graves nods absently, and Credence shrinks back into the corner of the chair. Graves thinks distantly that he deserves a better response than that, but he may be onto something with this book. The first few spells listed seem like simple hexes more apt for teenage troublemakers, but the fourth one could be promising.

“Okay, I think I’ve got something.”

Credence brightens immediately. “Can you try it?”

“Careful,” Graves warns him. “Magic can be a very dangerous thing. Try not to be so eager about everything.”

He regrets saying it immediately, because Credence looks like he’s been slapped. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t mean—” Graves sighs. He's still crouching, and it’s making his legs hurt. He lowers himself down to kneel at Credence’s feet. The boy looks quite alarmed, stiffening in his chair. With a sick feeling, Graves starts to wonder about what Grindelwald had done to him with his hands, said to him in his voice. Tina may have reassured him, but he’s starting to doubt her knowledge on the matter. “I know magic can be an exciting thing, at first. Of course it’s exciting. But you don’t realize how immensely powerful it can be when put in the wrong person’s hands. Grindelwald impersonated me for seven months and nobody even noticed — although, that may have more to do with the incompetency of my colleagues.”

He finishes with an attempt at a playful smirk but Credence doesn’t meet his eyes, almost like he’s afraid to look down at him, aversion born out of some kind of twisted politeness. Graves straightens himself up, stretching his legs with a groan. “Well. Shall we try this out?”

He isn’t necessarily optimistic. He’s learned better than to fall victim to positive thinking — as an auror, it’s the first thing they drain out of you. But he tries to smile warmly as Credence stands up, obviously anxious, arms wrapped protectively around his chest.

“Is it going to hurt?”

Graves shakes his head firmly. “It shouldn’t hurt you at all. I’m just not going to promise that it’ll work.” 

“Mr Graves,” Credence says, and he whispers it like a prayer, eyes wide and owlish, the softness of his voice shrinking him into something small and timid.

Graves looks at him for a moment without speaking, and then Credence is stepping forward into his space, into his body. His arms are shaky and awkward when they come up to wrap around Graves’ waist. Credence looks almost horrified with himself, but adamant, as though he can’t turn back now.

“Will you—” He swallows hard and doesn’t finish his question. But Graves is not an unkind man; he won’t demand an explanation where one is unneeded. He folds his arms over the boy’s trembling upper half, one hand nestled in the hollow between his sharp shoulder blades, one on the back of his neck. He feels Credence shudder against him, some sort of stilted half-sob, and he cringes silently. He really doesn't trust himself to be comforting in the way that Credence needs.

“You’re okay,” he says, and it feels flat and useless but he says it anyway, rubbing soothing circles against Credence’s back before he can think better of it. “It’s all okay.”

Credence nods jerkily where his head is rested on Graves’ shoulder, and then he takes a step back, not looking up.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and his eyes remain fixed on the polished wooden floor.

“It is okay if I do the spell now?”

Another nod; a shift in those long and spindly legs.

Graves holds out his wand before him, pointed right at the pendant resting upon Credence’s birdcage chest. He focuses his mind, clearing it of all his nagging doubts and worries, and speaks the incantation aloud. His voice reverberates in the high-ceilinged room. For a moment, nothing happens.

And then Credence screams.

The pendant glows bright red and dissolves into nothing, burning ember and ash swept into thin air in a fraction of a second. The cord vanishes from around his neck, but Credence has dropped to his knees on the floor, eyes squeezed shut, hand clutching at his chest. Teeth clenched and grinding together.

“Credence!” Graves drops to his side, reaching for his curved and bony shoulders, panic rising in his throat. Credence’s hand drops from his chest and he goes eerily silent. The whole room stills, the whole world tilts on its axis, and Credence's eyes flit upward to meet Graves'. 

The Deathly Hallows symbol is branded into his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here it is revealed that credence not knowing how to read is my absolute favourite trope. i've secretly believed that it's canon since the very first time i watched fantastic beasts - i mean, mary lou could have easily kept him out of school, and i really wouldn't put it past her.
> 
> and credence gets a hug!! i couldn't shake the image of his sweet lil self deciding to risk it all and ask to be hugged because he just misses the feeling so much - yeah, grindelwald does it, but he wants his mr graves. 
> 
> grindelwald can go fuck himself, also. long live real percival graves.
> 
> thank you for your sweet comments/kudos!
> 
> [here's the post for this chapter on tumblr <3](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/180861509790/read-chapter-3-of-little-beast-on-ao3-credence)


	4. Chapter 4

Credence doesn’t quite remember leaving Nurmengard. The details are hazy in his mind, and any time he tries to focus on his surroundings his heart starts beating too fast and he feels himself evaporating into smoke again. Whenever that happens, Mr Graves puts one of his big, warm hands on Credence’s arm and it slows him down a little bit.

He should be used to running away, he thinks, after making it to Paris by the skin of his teeth, the grace of God abandoned back in the rafters of the church he destroyed. He certainly did a lot of running then: from the magical police (which he quickly figured out do not work in tandem with the non-magical police) and then from the circus, from New York and from God and from every single cursed memory of Ma.

That aside, when it comes to fight or flight, Credence rarely makes a choice. He usually stands still.

Stands still through the cracks of the belt against his palms, his back; stands still when Grindelwald holds him and touches his face; stands still when strangers call him _freak_ and knock his leaflets out of his hands. 

It seems he’s making up for all the missed opportunities for flight now, running like he’s never run before. The wind comes at them in violent sheets, and he shivers like he hasn’t been warm in days. His hand stays tightly grasped in Mr Graves’ own, and he stupidly worries that his palm might be sweaty. How ridiculous to be embarrassed about such a thing in a time like this. And then he’s held flush against Mr Graves’ side, and oh, how wonderful it is to be held again, to be pressed to the man’s strong chest, indulgently burrowing his face against the warmth of his cashmere scarf. And then —

They’re spinning, a vicious wind wrapping around them like a person-shaped tornado, and Credence is suddenly unsure which way is up and which is down. He’s being pulled in all directions and he clings tighter to Mr Graves, head light, floating away…

His feet hit solid ground and he stumbles. He nearly topples over but Mr Graves holds him up, breathing hard. Credence feels his stomach turn and he clutches at the man’s elbows, head spinning. 

“Mr Graves—”

He’s grabbed rather roughly by the shoulders and thrust in front of the sink where he heaves once, spitting up nothing more than a weak mouthful of bile, still feeling understandably queasy.

“I’m sorry, Credence. I didn’t think to ask if you’d apparated before.”

“Oh,” Credence says faintly, still swaying in place. “That’s what that was.”

“If you’re going to be sick again, please stay by the sink.” Mr Graves busies himself at the counter, and Credence slowly takes in his surroundings. They’re in a tiny kitchen that looks rather neglected, as though nobody has used it for quite some time. There’s a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, yellow light turning everything a kind of ugly-warm. Nothing in the fruit bowl looks edible and the wallpaper is peeling at the edges. It has a dusty sort of charm, though, and Credence likes it much better than the cold insides of the church.

“Where are we?” He asks, once his stomach has settled enough to allow him to speak. 

“A safe house,” Mr Graves says vaguely, rooting through the cabinets. “Thanks to Mr Scamander. You know him?”

Credence perches delicately on one of the unstable wooden chairs at the kitchen bar. He picks up a chipped porcelain bowl and traces the painted blue flowers along the rim, just to have something to do with his hands. “Kind of. He tried to help me, I think, at the end. Before they… you know.”

Newt had found Credence twice, both in precarious moments. 

The first time, it was in the underground train station after Mr Graves — _Grindelwald,_ he reminds himself _—_ had betrayed him. When he was heartbroken and devastated and so very tired. He knew then that he would be killed, there was no doubt about it; he’d lost control and destroyed half the city, unable to come back to his body, unable to calm himself down. And then, while he was huddled on the tracks, Newt had crouched down to precisely the height of his hunched-over form and gently asked if he could come to him.

It was the simplest kindness, and it made Credence want to cry. But Grindelwald had shown up, wand flashing, shooting lightning left and right, and Credence ran.

The second time was at Grindelwald’s rally in Paris, when most everyone had apparated away and Credence was slowly approaching the circle of blue flames. Leaving everyone and everything in his wake, selfish and exhausted and hideously desperate.

“ _Credence!_ ” Newt’s voice had called, and Credence hadn’t even turned around.

Mr Graves wasn’t there that time, he nearly thinks, but then he remembers.

It isn’t fair. That’s what hurts the most. It isn’t fair that Mr Graves — _his_ Mr Graves, the one he knew before — never really existed at all. The only person on the planet who touched him as though he was worthy of being touched, as though he wasn’t something filthy and undeserving and _wrong_ ; the only person who had lifted his face and forced him to meet his eyes, forced him to be seen. His only shelter, the only one who’d bothered to look past the ugly orphan shell he wore, to see his awful insides and want to hold him regardless, to take all of his broken parts and stitch them back together into something less terrible.

It isn’t fair.

Because this Mr Graves is a real man, the real human being behind the face Credence fell weak for. But he’s a stranger. He’s kind enough, and he’s a good man, because he came to rescue Credence when he really didn’t have to. But he isn’t the same. He doesn’t know Credence, doesn’t know the things that scare him or the words that make him feel calm and less afraid. He doesn’t know the nape of Credence’s neck or the small of his back or the hollow of his cheek the way the old Mr Graves did, all the soft spots he would touch to make Credence feel like a person again.

This Mr Graves is less affectionate and more closed off. He’s sparing with physical contact and he hesitates whenever they’re too close to each other. Credence has a hard time understanding him sometimes, because he speaks in quiet ambiguities and doesn’t keep eye contact like Grindelwald. He knows that he shouldn’t pass judgement already; it’s been less than a day and he doubts that he’s very pleasant to be around either.

He’s so lost in his own head that he doesn’t notice Mr Graves has gone. He blinks at the now-empty room, hand clutching the edge of his chair, the faintest hint of dizziness still stirring behind his eyes.

“Mr Graves?” He calls nervously.

“In here,” comes the response, sounding far away.

Credence creeps out of the kitchen, looking around at the cramped living room. There’s a couch and two armchairs, though one is stacked high with dusty hardcover books. Everything looks faded and old. He heads down the hall toward the sound of Mr Graves’ voice. He can hear him talking — there’s somebody else here. Maybe Newt. Maybe Tina.

When he enters the room, however, it’s only Mr Graves, standing in front of the fireplace which is flickering with green flames. In the fire he sees… he doesn’t know her name, but he believes she’s Tina’s sister. She’s very beautiful, the kind of woman that Ma always hated.

_Whores,_ she’d spew viciously under her breath, yanking Credence closer toward her on the dreary New York sidewalk. He would be whipped later for trying to crane his neck to take a look, to see the women who walked together through the streets, arms hooked together, looking so bright and happy even amidst the gloom. _Don’t look at them._

He’d wanted to tell Ma he wasn’t having lustful thoughts, but that would be even worse. Desiring women was a punishable offence, of course, but admitting that he did _not_ desire women would be the most despicable affront of all. So he took his penance for staring, for lusting: five strikes to his palms and one to his back. That night, the crack of the belt echoed in his head while he curled his bleeding palms against the rough sheets of his bed. He fell asleep thinking of the blonde woman in the long coat he'd seen strolling down 14th Street with so much sunlight on her face, imagining her cradling him like a baby, being his mother.

Tina’s sister has hair the same shade of gold, curled loose about her face, and her eyes shine amidst the flares of green. 

“Is that him?” She says suddenly. “Oh, he looks older!”

Credence flushes, hand floating up to pat down his hair. He knows the short cut has aged him. Though it's grown out decently since he first sheared it off, he still looks much less like a child than he did with the round and ugly style Ma had forced on him. Twice a month, dull scissors and a sauce bowl over the kitchen sink, never apologizing when the blade nicked his ear. He’s got a collection of tiny scars to show for it.

“Come in, Credence,” Mr Graves says. “Have you met Queenie?”

“No,” he says, and he feels mousy and shy but it’s muscle memory that moves him, nearly automatic, at the sound of an order in Mr Graves’ voice. He crosses the room to stand beside him. “Hello.”

“Hello, Credence,” she beams at him. “I was just telling Mr Graves here how happy I am that he found you. Teenie certainly will be, too.”

“When do you think they’ll be here? I’m nervous about staying in Europe but Picquery’s got me flagged at every border. I could probably apparate myself back home but I don’t want to splinch the kid.”

Credence doesn’t understand what any of this means, so he stays quiet. 

“It may be a few days still, if all goes well,” she says gently. “I know you’re frightened but Newt’s certain the house is safe. If they don’t manage to capture Grindelwald, well…” she sighs. “They may be back sooner. But we’ll hope for the best.”

“Thanks, Queenie. Call me back if you hear anything.”

With a little wave, she’s gone from the fire and the room is cast into silence.

“Are we still in Austria?” Credence asks tentatively.

“Paris,” Graves tells him. 

“Oh. What does splinch mean?”

“If apparation goes wrong, parts of you can be left behind. It can be minor, just a little bit of skin, or you can lose an entire limb. My apparation is generally pretty strong but I wouldn’t want to risk taking you side-along across the ocean.”

Credence feels ill at the thought. 

“I suppose we should plan to stay here for the night. I’m… I think there’s only one functioning bedroom, but I’ll take the sofa, of course. I’ll find you some linens.”

“I’ll take the sofa,” Credence says abruptly. “I’m the reason you had to come here. It’s okay.”

“Nonsense. I could have told Tina no.” Mr Graves winks, and Credence’s heart flips backward in his chest. “How about I find you some bedclothes, and then I’ll make us both a cup of tea and we can fill each other in on everything that’s happened.”

Now that his stomach has stopped lurching around in his belly, Credence starts to register his hunger. It grumbles up like a tiny thundercloud and makes his throat ache. 

“Mr Graves, do you think there’s anything to eat?”

Mr Graves looks up, eyebrows raised. “Oh, Credence, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think to ask— yes, of course, let me make you something.” He laughs breathlessly, shaking his head. “I’ve been so — Merlin, I’m sorry. You must be starving.”

“It’s really okay,” Credence says with a small smile. “I’ve gone much longer without food.” He catches the guilty look on the man’s face and frowns. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Nonsense,” Mr Graves says again. “Nothing to apologize for. Let me see what I can find in the kitchen.”

 

——————————————

 

There isn’t much food to be found in the dusty old place, and so in the end they sit together in the living room with bowls of canned soup, a few slices of buttered toast and matching mugs of tea.

Credence eats like a bird, tiny bites and delicate movements, as if he’s afraid to be greedy lest his meal be taken away. Graves wants to correct him but they’re already in such a fragile balance that he’s not keen on upsetting the boy. So he watches him sip from his mug and take small bites of his toast, and tries to figure out where to start. All attempts to silently catch Credence’s gaze fail, as the boy seems adamant on maintaining eye contact with his feet.

“Do you have any questions?” Graves says finally. “Because I have some questions for you, if that’s okay.”

Credence finally cocks his head up to look at him, wide-eyed. “Um. I guess I wanted to know when it happened. Like, when he… you know.”

“When he got me?"

Credence’s eyes shoot downward again. “Yeah.”

Graves sighs, stretching out his legs. The chair isn’t comfortable, but he’d insisted Credence take the couch, and it’s worth it to see him finally relaxed against the cushions. “He caught me off guard. I’d been on the front lines of the search for him for a while, but he got me on a day off, basically. Polyjuiced himself to look like a stranger, walked by me in a park and side-alonged me. It all happened very fast — he’d been watching me for weeks, I suppose. By the time I realized what was happening he had me petrified.” At the confused look on Credence’s face, he clarifies: “It’s a spell. It paralyzes you. Anyway, that was… what is it now, April? It was around the end of October, I think. Maybe November.”

“And you were just locked away the whole time?” Credence says, voice a little awed. Graves smiles ruefully.

“Yeah. In the cellar of a remote cabin, somewhere in the South. Don’t know why he didn’t just keep me in his prison. Tina found me, eventually, on a vague tip Queenie read in one of his followers’ minds.”

“Queenie reads minds?”

“She’s a legilimens, yes.” Graves takes a long sip of his tea, which is starting to go cold. With a quick wave of his hand he reheats both their drinks. Credence startles as the mug in his hands grows warmer. “Sorry,” Graves says quickly, “force of habit.”

“It’s okay. You wanted to ask me questions?”

“I’ve got a lot,” Graves says apologetically. “But you don’t have to answer everything. How about you just tell me what happened, your side of the story, and if there’s anything left at the end I’ll ask.”

Credence nods, looking a lot like he’s bracing himself. “Okay. Um. Should I start with him, or with me, or—”

“Start wherever you’d like,” Graves says soothingly, and Credence visibly relaxes.

“I was eleven,” he says, and then he stops. Like he doesn’t know how to explain further than that, like he’s never strung the scattered parts together into a story. His voice sounds calm but it’s easy to see beneath the cracked surface, to see the parts that are raw and hurt and sad. Graves gives him what’s meant to be an encouraging smile but most likely translates to an awkward grimace.

“I was eleven,” Credence says again, very quietly. “It happened the first time when I was walking home. Someone — someone hurt me at school and I was upset.”

“That’s the first time the obscurus came out?”

Credence nods, brow pinching into a frown. “I always knew there was something wrong with me, but that just proved it.” Graves tries not to wince at the words. _There is nothing wrong with you,_ he wants to tell him. _Nothing at all. Magic should be celebrated, not repressed._ But he stays silent, letting Credence explain at his own pace. “I felt things happen sometimes, you know, inside me. And things would… things would break, or move, and lights would flicker. Ma… Mary Lou, she hated witchcraft. I lived with her at the church, where she started the New Salem Preservation Society.”

“I’ve heard about that,” Graves mutters. Credence shifts uncomfortably.

“I used to hand out the flyers. Maybe you saw me.” He never did, but Credence sounds almost hopeful, and so he doesn’t say so. “Ma always hated me. It’s like she knew there was something wrong. She… she hit me. A lot. And the more it happened, the worse it got, and one day it just exploded out of me. When it happened, I used to hide in the underground train station. Usually I could calm down there and it could go away. But it got worse and worse. One day someone came to me — you, I thought, but it was _him —_ when I was handing out the flyers. He asked if he could speak to me in… in private. He took me to a diner and bought me lunch. And then he told me about magic.”

“You didn’t know?”

“I had an idea,” Credence admits. “He proved that it was real, though. And he told me it wasn’t evil and dark the way Ma always said it was. He turned a dead flower into a beautiful, magical one. And then he told me I could join the wizarding world, and he would teach me magic. I just had to help him find the child.”

“The obscurial child.” 

Credence nods. “He didn’t know it was me. He thought it was my sister, Modesty. I didn’t even know it was me, because I didn’t know what he was looking for. He was never really honest with me. He didn’t explain things.”

“Where’s Modesty now?”

“I don’t know,” Credence whispers, and Graves sees his eyes start to shine with the threat of tears. “Ma and Chastity, my other sister, they’re dead. I — I killed them. I didn’t mean to.” He looks up at Graves desperately, as though seeking reassurance that he’s not at fault. 

“It’s okay, Credence,” Graves says gently. “You had no idea what was going on.”

The thought of this poor boy, terrified and uncertain, being manipulated and exploited by Gellert Grindelwald in _his_ body… it makes his jaw tremble with fury. He wants to fight. Fuck Seraphina’s ideas about how he should be recovering — Grindelwald needs to be taken down, and everybody else seems to be too incompetent to do it.

“He called me a squib. What does that mean?”

Graves shakes his head. “You aren’t a squib, Credence. Your body is practically glowing with magical ability. A squib is somebody who comes from a magical family but has no power.” He smiles at Credence’s soft little _oh_ and says, “Go on.” 

“After I killed them,” Credence continues in a shaky voice, “I was so afraid, and so guilty, and he came to me. I touched the necklace and he came, and he held me and I thought he was going to t-take care of me, I don’t know.” He shakes his head, swiping discreetly at his eyes, looking flustered. “But he just kept asking about my sisters, and I kept begging him to help me, because I knew there was something wrong with me, and then he — he hit me.”

“He hit you?” Graves’ voice comes out as a cracked whisper. He clears his throat, but still looks to Credence, aghast.

“He hit me,” Credence repeats. “In the face.”

With Graves’ own fist. Touched him with his hands. Maybe even pressed his lips to Credence’s mouth, to his skin — Graves starts to feel very, very ill.

“Credence,” he says slowly, unsure how to word the question. He feels oddly like a parent having the dreaded conversation with their child, explaining in vapid, sugar-sweet terms the way wizards and witches make babies. He’d been glad to avoid that responsibility on account of not having children, but here he is trying to come up with a clean and non-intimidating way to describe such an awful, twisted thing. Credence might have spent twenty years on this earth, but somehow he seems so much younger. “Did he ever… did Grindelwald ever take advantage of you?”

Credence blinks at him. “How do you mean?”

“Did he touch you,” Graves says through gritted teeth. “In an inappropriate way.”

Credence squirms where he sits, clenching his hands together so tightly his knuckles go white. “He touched me a lot,” he says quietly. “But he didn’t… you know.”

“You know that nobody is allowed to touch you without your permission, Credence. Don’t you?” His voice has taken an almost pleading tone, a _please tell me I don’t have to explain any more of this_ tone. Credence’s face starts to flush pink and he nods jerkily.

“I know, Mr Graves.”

“Okay.” Graves feels his stomach settle a bit, but not much. He thinks about what Tina told him. _He thinks of you. Fondly._ How fondly, exactly? He doubts Tina would care to mention it if Queenie had simply heard Credence thinking about Graves buying him lunch. And after Grindelwald, in Graves’ body, had shown him kindness and care and acceptance and then turned around and betrayed him, hit him just like all the rest, for Credence to continue to think kindly of him — 

“I’m sorry if I make you uncomfortable,” Credence blurts out. 

Graves starts, looking up. “What do you mean, Credence? You don’t make me uncomfortable.”

“I just — before him, nobody had ever touched me that way, I mean… hugged me, or…” he’s turning redder by the second, a cherry-sweet hue creeping up his angular cheeks, and he looks as though he regrets each word the moment it passes his lips. “I just mean it made me feel good and I… I had feelings about him. But I know it wasn’t you. I understand that. I’m sorry.”

His voice is so small by the end of it that Graves can barely hear him. He doesn’t know what to say. Credence has folded himself up on the couch, half-finished soup set aside on the coffee table, tea cooling once more beside it. Graves gives him a gentle smile and waves his hand, reheating the soup and the tea once more.

“Finish your dinner,” he says. “We’ll need our strength to travel back to New York.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i tagged slow burn, i was serious! graves is very closed off and tense (understandable, after seven months spent in a cellar) and credence is traumatized by, like, his entire life, but especially by "mr graves" betraying him - so it'll take them a while to come around to each other. promise there's some happiness on the horizon though <3
> 
> as you can probably tell, credence is like, the MOST touch starved in this fic, and also gets way deep in his feelings thinking about people touching him. 
> 
> thank you all so much for your comments!! seriously, they make my heart warm. i'm so excited about this story. it's just as hard for me to wait the week to update!
> 
> [here's the post on tumblr - reblogs always appreciated <3](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/181081296815/read-chapter-3-of-little-beast-on-ao3-credence)


	5. Chapter 5

Credence wakes to a low murmur of voices, his dreams still pressing insistently at the backs of his eyelids. Vast hallways. Nurmengard. Spinning into darkness, held close to Grindelwald's side. The corners of his eyes are sticky and he blinks a few times before the room comes into focus. The door is open, and three people are crowded within the peeling white frame. Instinct takes over and he jolts upwards, scrambling back against the headboard, his sleepy-slow brain struggling to wake up.

“So sorry, Credence.” He recognizes the heavily accented voice that speaks first. “We didn’t mean to frighten you.”

It’s Newt Scamander. Credence blinks a few more times and the blur clicks into something clearer: Newt Scamander, Tina Goldstein, and Mr Graves.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice a quiet croak. Tina smiles, and it’s full of all the gentleness it was back when he saw her for the very first time, her feet planted on rotting church floorboards, wand raised and pointed right for Ma’s heart. In all his years of prayer and God-fearing servitude, he’d never felt so close to seeing an angel.

“Good morning, Credence. How are you feeling?”

He’s suddenly very much aware of his lack of a shirt, and he pulls the blankets self-consciously upward. “May I get dressed?”

“Of course.” Mr Graves shoos the others out of the doorway and casts one more meaningful look at Credence before he leaves as well, pulling the door shut behind himself. Credence sits himself up on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to fully wake himself up.

Newt and Tina are here, meaning…

His stomach twists as the implication starts to set in.

Newt and Tina are here, meaning Grindelwald was not defeated. He’ll come for him, Credence knows that. He’s a danger to everyone around him, a magnet for the man he’s coming to learn is the most powerful dark wizard in the world. The man he’d thought was his friend. Newt and Tina are here, meaning it’s time to go back to New York, the very place he fled from to begin with. Back to the place that tried to kill him, likely pursued by the man who will most certainly do the job himself if the government fails again.

His breath comes out far too quick and shallow, heart pounding at the weak bones of his chest like it’s going to burst out at any moment. He's engulfed in the familiar ache, the weakness, as smoke begins to leak out, as his insides crackle and burn and it hurts, it hurts, it…

“Credence? Are you okay?”

Mr Graves. He’s there, he’s right outside the door. Mr Graves will protect him. He will take care of him.

“Mr Graves,” he says weakly, and the door opens.

He is nothing. He is smoke. He is a cloud of darkness, a tiny storm, hovering in the room. Mr Graves looks at him with such alarm, such… awe. A ghost of the expression he wore the first time he saw Credence explode. _Not him. Grindelwald. Not Mr Graves._

“Credence,” Mr Graves says in a very soft voice, closing the door behind himself, hands held palms-up before him. “I’m not going to hurt you. Nobody is going to hurt you. Please come down. It’s okay.”

Slowly he feels himself begin to reform, back on the edge of the bed, shivering in the cool air of the room. He curls his arms around his body as it starts to settle. His heart is still making a valiant attempt at crawling up his throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Mr Graves frowns and shakes his head. “I’m sorry we startled you. We shouldn’t have barged in like that. Do you have something to wear?”

“I only have my clothes from yesterday.”

Mr Graves sighs. “Okay. Wear those for now and we’ll get you some new things when we get back to New York.”

“Are we going back today?”

“As soon as you’re up and ready. Get dressed and come have breakfast. Tina and Newt brought us some real food.”

Real food means fruit and eggs and chocolate croissants, as it turns out. Credence savours the meal, eating slowly and carefully, trying to ignore the eyes that keep sliding over to him. The room has grown hushed and hesitant, like nobody wants to disturb him, and Credence starts to feel very much like an animal under observation. Every movement is noted and analyzed, every too-sharp bone and scarred surface is catalogued.

“The portkey is ready whenever you two are,” Newt says finally. “It’ll take us straight back to the outskirts of New York. I figure we can find our way home from there.”

“Thank you, Newt,” Mr Graves says gruffly. “And, ah — I will reimburse you. Soon as we make it home.”

“Oh, not to worry. I’m happy to do it.”

Tina smacks him lightly on the arm. “Mr Graves has plenty of money. He can pay you back."

Newt looks like he wants to protest but swallows down the words. Credence watches as Tina glances quickly at Newt, and then looks away when he looks to her. He wonders if they have feelings about each other the same way he has feelings about Mr Graves.

_Not Mr Graves. It wasn’t him. Isn’t him._

He hates reminding himself of this fact, like if he just doesn’t think about it then maybe it won’t be true. Because if he doesn’t keep consciously telling himself that this is not the Mr Graves he knew, it’s so easy to forget: this Mr Graves has the same low, soothing voice, the same broad shoulders, the same strong hands. He smells different, a new cologne, and that throws Credence off sometimes. But only sometimes.

The knot in his chest tightens. He figures it doesn’t really matter, anyway.

 

——————————————

  


“The portkey might make you feel ill,” Graves tells Credence apologetically as they trudge through the field to where the guard stands in wait. It’s already been a long day of just getting there. Considering how Credence’s body reacted to apparation, Graves doesn’t have much faith that he’ll go unaffected by a cross-continental swirl.

Credence looks dubiously at the portkey, which is a simple wooden box this time. “Do we just… stand in it?”

“He’ll tell us when it’s ready,” says Newt. “And then we just hop right in.”

“Hop right in,” Credence repeats under his breath, sounding bewildered.

Graves takes hold of the boy’s palm, which is warm and a little sweaty. Credence flushes and tenses his hand but Graves squeezes it reassuringly. Somewhere in the depths of his head he’s reminded that it’s probably not a good idea to touch him this way, to lead him further into his confused and muddled feelings. But it’s in his nature to protect, and right now Credence needs more protection than he can begin to fathom.

“When are you planning on updating me on Grindelwald’s status?”

Graves doesn’t necessarily want to hear the answer, but he needs to. Tina and Newt glance at each other, and then at the ground, and then at each other again, and then finally at Graves.

“Um,” says Newt.

Graves raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“He cancelled the rally,” Tina huffs out a breath, clutching at her elbows, digging the toe of one worn-out boot into the dirt. “We found out where it was being held and went there and — it just didn’t happen. He must have gone back to Austria. Thank Merlin you two got out before—”

“He knows,” Credence blurts out. “He knows I left.”

“He might,” Newt says honestly. “But we’re going to do our best to get him before he can figure out where you are. The ministry is ambitious, Mr Graves, they’re trying to storm Nurmengard in the morning. I’m sure you’re aware of how ludicrous that idea is. I'm hoping I can manage to talk Theseus out of it — my brother, you know.”

“What are you going to do?” Graves asks him.

Newt gives him a small smile. “I’ll think of something.”

As the guard begins to count down from ten, Credence’s breath hitches and he clutches at his chest with one hand, the one not currently clutched in Graves' own.

“What is it?” Graves asks, alarmed.

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Is it the scar? Did it burn?”

Credence clenches his jaw. “Just a little. It’s fine.”

Graves feels sick to his stomach. He ignores Tina and Newt’s concerned glances and squeezes Credence's hand tighter, taking a breath and preparing to be sucked into the atmosphere of strange magic.

 

——————————————

  


Credence empties his stomach on the dirt and grass the moment they hit the ground. His knees sink into the soft forest floor, hands laid flat across his thighs, eyes closed and trying to force himself to breathe. It isn't easy. His head is still spinning, insides twisting from the sudden, vicious whirlwind of magic. He can't seem to wrap his mind around all the new rules. They crossed an entire ocean in a matter of seconds; the thought alone is enough to make him dizzy.

“Is he okay?” Tina whispers to Mr Graves.

“Weak stomach,” Mr Graves murmurs back.

Credence picks himself up, knees wobbling, face warm. “I’m sorry. I'm not used to that.”

“Quite alright, Credence.” Newt pats him awkwardly on the back and then pulls a folded map out of his pocket. “We’re on the outskirts of New York right now. Certainly safe enough to apparate back home.”

“Wait.” Mr Graves catches Newt’s arm, voice turning low and urgent. “Would you mind coming back with us? I need you to take a look at something.”

“Oh! You want— oh. Yes. Right. Tina, would you like to come along?”

And then Mr Graves is holding Credence to his side again and they’re whisked away, landing in yet another kitchen. This time Credence stays upright, swallowing down his nausea. Tina and Newt appear a moment later. This kitchen is small but not cramped, very sparse and minimally decorated. Realization dawns on Credence like a strange sort of elation — this must be Mr Graves’ home.

Mr Graves leads them into the sitting room and gestures for Credence to take a seat on the sofa. 

“Credence,” he says lightly. “Can you show Mr Scamander the mark?”

Credence feels very much like a child. His fingers are awkward and clumsy as he undoes the first few buttons of his shirt, nudging the fabric aside to expose the pink-orange brand, stark and raw against his pale chest. Triangle. Circle. Line. Newt sucks in a breath, a tiny gasp, and his eyes widen slightly. He lowers himself before Credence, one knee balanced on the edge of the sofa, looking him in the eyes. From the measly amount of time he’s spent in the man’s presence, Credence has managed to gather that he’s hardly more fond of eye contact than Credence is himself. Yet here they are, two strange beasts, pupil to pupil like they share some singular and unparalleled understanding.

“Can I touch you, Credence?”

Credence nods wordlessly, finally casting his eyes away. Newt reaches forward with impossibly gentle fingers, running the index across the lines of the mark. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t feel like anything but a soft touch, a tiny burst of warmth to Credence’s heart, just like when Mr Graves — _Grindelwald —_ used to stroke him this way.

He stays very still as Newt continues to trace over the mark, peering ever closer, and Mr Graves and Tina wait with baited breath. Their tension is palpable. Credence feels almost nauseous with it.

“How did it happen?” Newt asks, and his face is so close to Credence’s chest that he can feel the warmth of his breath fluttering against his skin. 

“He gave me a necklace with a spell on it, so if I needed him I could touch it and he would come to me. But if I tried to leave the castle it burned me, and when I tried to take it off it strangled me. So Mr Graves found a spell to destroy it, but it… it left that mark.”

Newt nods, pressing the pads of two fingers against Credence’s skin, watching it flush white when he pushes down and fill pink again when he lets go. Finally, he pulls back. “I may have something to help the scarring.”

“It isn’t cursed?” Mr Graves asks, and the uncertainty in his voice does nothing to quell Credence’s anxiety.

Newt chews on his lower lip. “I don’t think so.”

Mr Graves’ voice rises with urgency. “But it burned him earlier, I think—”

“Likely just phantom pain,” Newt says with a gentle smile. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Mr Graves.”

“Call me Percival,” Mr Graves sighs. “Thank you, Newt.”

“I’ll bring over the potions I’ve got tomorrow,” the man says cheerfully. He steps back from Credence and Mr Graves nods.

“Thank you," he says again. "I'll walk you out. I'd like to have a quick word.”

 

——————————————  


 

Graves tries not to think about the fearful look on Credence’s face as they step outside onto the front porch of the duplex, leaving him alone on the sofa with his shirt half buttoned and his eyes filled with all kinds of dread.

“Obliviate,” Tina mutters under her breath, wand pointed at the guard on the sidewalk. She glances back to Graves. “You think he’s got no clue you haven’t just been holed up inside this whole time? He reports back to Picquery. Can’t take any chances.”

“Thanks, Tina. Credence…” Graves begins, and then sighs. “He should be under some sort of protection, right? I don’t know if he’s safe here with me. If Grindelwald has any inkling of his… his _feelings…_ ”

“If you’re suggesting we take him to MACUSA, I think they’d be more likely to imprison him than to appoint him a guard,” Tina admits. “I don’t have much sway there. I’m still under probation.”

“He shouldn’t stay with me. There are so many reasons why he shouldn’t stay with me.”

“You aren’t working, Graves, Picquery won’t let you,” Tina says gently. “You’ll be around to watch over him.”

“I can hardly take care of myself right now, Tina. Grindelwald got me too easily. Once he figures out I got away, if he hasn’t already, he’ll come for me and for Credence. The two of us under the same roof will make it far too easy for him. And besides all of that… you know it’s inappropriate.”

Tina’s voice rises with frustration. “Stop taking that so seriously, Graves. The person he thought was you was the first person to be kind to him and to make him feel important. Of course he’s going to have a crush on you. There’s nothing wrong with that, and if you keep this up you’re going to embarrass him.”

Newt looks as if he’d like to apparate out of this conversation immediately.

“Can’t he stay with you and Queenie?” Graves says, exasperated. “I’m sure Queenie would love to mother him. He can stay there until I figure out how to explain all of this to Picquery, and then we’ll set him up with his own place with wards and guards and all of it.”

Tina crosses her arms. “Fine. You can go explain to him why you don’t want him around.”

“Tina, you know that’s not…” Graves gives up before he can even finish his sentence. “Alright. Just wait here.”  


 

——————————————

  


When Mr Graves comes inside, Credence has to fight back tears. He already knows. He doesn’t have to be told. 

As he shrinks further back into the couch, he misses the days when he was much smaller — before his traitorous body outgrew his feeble insides, his heart working double time to keep up with a shell that was decidedly visible when he wanted to be anything but. The older he got, the more he yearned to be inconspicuous and unseen, and the more his body betrayed him. Long, clumsy legs; sharp, hollow features that served only to make him stand out more. Always in the way, always shoved aside. He learned quickly to despise his very bones, to hunch and fold himself, to force his skeleton frame into something less obtrusive.

Making himself small around Mr Graves doesn’t seem to work. The man always sees him, all of him, regardless.

“Credence, you’re going to go stay with Tina and her sister Queenie. You met her in the fireplace, remember?” Credence doesn’t answer, and Mr Graves kneels in front of him, tipping Credence’s chin up with two fingers. The tenderness makes Credence’s eyes burn. “Hey,” Mr Graves says gently. “Is that okay?”

Credence feels himself starting to cry and he hates himself. He’s a baby. A pathetic, stupid baby who really thought that Mr Graves would want him around.

Mr Graves frowns. “Hey, come on, Credence. It’s okay.”

That only makes him more miserable, and he feels himself starting to break off, starting to shatter again. Smoke leaks from his sleeves and his head tips back as it pours from his mouth and —

At the feeling of Mr Graves’ hand on his cheek, he comes back to himself.

“How about you stay here tonight and we’ll figure everything out in the morning.”

Credence nods, wiping at his damp eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Nonsense.” Mr Graves smiles. “Don’t be sorry. I’ll tell Tina and Newt. We’ll go over in the morning and Newt can try his potions on that scar.”

Soon enough, Credence and Mr Graves are sitting at the kitchen table eating bread and leftover stew.

“It isn't very good,” Mr Graves says apologetically. “I’m not the best cook.”

Credence thinks it’s wonderful. He makes sure to finish his entire bowl just to show Mr Graves as much, even though it makes his stomach hurt a little bit. He isn’t used to having this much food. It’s worth it, though, when he sees the smile Mr Graves wears as he clears the plates away.

“I’ll set up my guest room for you,” he says as he washes the dishes. “And you can borrow some of my nightclothes. Tomorrow I’ll take you shopping.”

“I don’t have any money—” Credence starts nervously, but Mr Graves waves his hand.

“Not to worry. I have far too much and nobody to spend it on.” He stands at the sink, sleeves pushed up, strong forearms dusted with grey-brown hair that drips with water from the tap, and he winks. Credence’s heart does a backflip in his chest.

“I feel like I don’t know much about you, Credence,” Mr Graves continues, tone entirely conversational, drying a dish and sliding it into the cabinet. “You’re a bit of a mystery, I have to admit.”

Credence frowns. “I’m not very interesting, Mr Graves.” Mr Graves barks out a laugh and Credence feels his heart stutter in his chest, lurching to a faster pace, inexplicably terrified that this whole thing is a trap. “I’m sorry, I — I just meant…”

And then Mr Graves is in front of him, crouched to be level with where Credence still sits at the table, nervous and dizzy and nursing a glass of water that somehow keeps refilling itself without a word from the man. Mr Graves' eyes are so kind when he looks at him — kind, but sad. “Why are you sorry? There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

Credence just shrugs. 

With a sigh, and then a smile, Mr Graves rises again. “I think you’re very interesting. You had the whole of the American and British wizarding government on your heels for quite some time. Nobody can figure out how you’ve survived this long.” He winces visibly as Credence’s face falls. “I’m sorry, Credence, I didn’t mean…”

Credence shakes his head. “I know what you mean. It’s okay.”

He gets up, if only to force an end to the conversation that's starting to make his chest hurt.

Mr Graves gives him a pair of pyjama pants and a soft flannel shirt. Both items are baggy on his too-skinny frame but they’re comfortable and cozy and Credence feels tremendously cared for when he gets himself into bed, Mr Graves coming in a moment later with a mug of tea. He sits down on the edge, watching as Credence sips from it. 

“Is there anything else you need?”

Credence shakes his head. “Thank you, Mr Graves. For everything.”

Mr Graves ruffles his hair, a sweet, affectionate thing that makes Credence’s heart leap once more. “You’re welcome. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

——————————————

  


Returning to bed, Graves has a hard time getting to sleep. He tries to read, but finds himself staring at the same page for half an hour, not absorbing a single word. Instead, he takes out some parchment and starts to write a list of things he will have to do. Organizing and sorting through life’s obstacles has always been his strong suit — compartmentalization, as Seraphina often emphasizes, is an auror’s greatest weapon. After only the first few days he spent in the dark of Grindelwald’s captivity, he’d already started making lists in his head, ranking by order of importance the things he planned on doing once he'd escaped. _One: torture and then murder Gellert Grindelwald. Two: give Picquery and every other dimwit colleague the talking to of their lives…_

Funny how his checklist of plans never included rescuing a heartbroken obscurial from Grindelwald’s castle.

Here and now, with Credence (hopefully) fast asleep in his guest room, there are many more practical things to take care of. First and foremost, he’ll bring Credence shopping so the poor boy has something to wear. He won’t overwhelm him with any of his more lavish shops for now, simply the basics. Then he’ll take him to get a wand — he’s already sent an owl to his contact in the city who wouldn’t dream of turning them in to MACUSA. After that’s taken care of, they’ll head to Tina’s apartment, where hopefully Newt has some sort of wild potion in that case of his that will take care of Credence’s scar. 

That does it for tomorrow. He draws a line and then begins listing the more long-term goals: Credence will need to learn some spells, defensive ones most specifically. Everything he needs to protect himself in case of an attack. Maybe Tina can help him with that; she’s a decent auror. Once Credence is settled in with the Goldsteins, she can work on the defensive spells, Queenie can teach him some everyday magic… 

All that aside, Credence will also need to learn how to read. Perhaps they can find him a no-maj tutor, though they may have to plan for a few obliviations.

Graves closes his eyes and sets the pen down on his bedside table. This is shaping up to be quite a bit of work, considering Credence can’t simply be enrolled in school. He’s far too old for that now — he should have graduated Ilvermorny by this time, let alone be able to read the spell books. 

Well. He’ll work out the details tomorrow when he has Tina and Newt to help him. Certainly they’ll have some connections and then he can settle down and stop concerning himself with such matters, and instead focus on convincing Picquery to let him back onto the defensive unit. 

He’s just reaching over to turn out the light when he hears Credence scream.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm truly so sorry but this story is about to be a nightmare cliffhangers. i might possibly change the posting schedule to twice a week, but i'm still thinking on that.
> 
> anyway! thank you all so much, as always, for your comments/kudos. they make my day. i'm glad you aren't suffering too much through this incredibly slow burn. now that graves and credence are finally home and (relatively) safe, we'll see how long it takes for this party to get started...
> 
>  
> 
> [here's the post for this chapter on tumblr, reblogs always appreciated! <3](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/181271533265/read-chapter-5-of-little-beast-on-ao3-credence)


	6. Chapter 6

Graves nearly trips over himself twice as he bolts down the hall to the guest room. He fumbles with the handle, throws the door open and stops in his tracks, breath coming out hard and ragged. 

Credence is up on his knees, keeled over with his hands clutching his chest. The bedsheets pool around his trembling legs. His mouth gapes wide in a now-silent wail, frozen like some awful snapshot memory, his eyes squeezed shut so tight it must hurt.

Graves barely hears himself shouting his name as he crosses the room in three long strides, dropping onto the bed and reaching for Credence’s shoulders. All at once Credence stills, breathing loud and shallow through his open mouth, hands still clasped over his chest. His face is shiny with tears. 

“Is it the scar?”

Credence nods jerkily, finally opening his eyes, round and wet and terrified. 

“Help me,” he whimpers. And he falls into Graves’ arms.

As he holds the boy, awkwardly folded over his lap, Graves curses himself for being so foolish. After Grindelwald captured him without a shred of trouble, he should be far more vigilant with _anything_ related to that vile lizard of a man, let alone such a clear mark of dark magic. He wraps his arms more tightly about Credence’s twitching, shaking body, rubbing his back, trying to calm him down. Credence’s face is burrowed into his arm, tears leaving a damp patch on his shirtsleeve. Graves can feel the boy’s racing heartbeat as if it were implanted in his own chest.

It’s then that he realizes how thin Credence is, the bones of his shoulders poking out at odd angles, his spine a bumpy ladder protruding harsh against Graves’ hand. When Credence looks up at him, spiderleg lashes damp and clumped together, Graves notices the way his cheeks hollow out every time he moves his mouth. Years of malnourishment, of course; a lifetime of less-than. Of not-enough. Graves vows to feed him better, to make him finish every dinner — but right now, there are more pressing matters at hand.

“I’m going to call Newt,” he says finally. “I’ll get him over here right away.”

Credence nods, but his hands keep grasping at Graves’ shirt as though he’s trying to keep him there regardless.

“Shh,” Graves soothes, thumb tracing over the knobs of his spine. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

It’s five minutes before he’s able to convince Credence to get up, and even then the boy clutches at his arm every step of the way down to the sitting room. Graves doesn’t mind. It makes him feel useful, which is a feeling he clings to without the steady validation of his work at MACUSA.

He rings Tina up on the telephone, because he doesn’t want to startle them by popping up in their fireplace. She answers after four rings, sounding not nearly half awake.

“Tina, I need to speak to Newt. It’s urgent.”

“Graves, it’s—” she yawns loudly, cutting herself off. “It’s two in the morning.”

“Tina, it’s about Credence. I need to speak to Newt.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and then she says, “I’ll be right back.”

Within seconds, Newt’s groggy voice is on the line. “Percival, what’s the matter? What’s happened to Credence?”

“It’s the scar,” Graves tells him, casting a side-eyed glance at the boy, who’s still clinging fearfully to his arm. “He woke up screaming. Newt, I know it’s late but I need you to come here right now with whatever healing potions you’ve got.”

He half expects Newt to protest, but all he says is: “Give me ten minutes.”

Graves hangs up and pats Credence’s shoulder reassuringly. “Let me make you a cup of tea. Have a seat and I’ll get you a blanket.”

Rather reluctantly, Credence lets go of Graves’ arm and folds himself into the corner of the sofa, letting himself be draped in the soft wool blanket that Graves offers him. He tucks his feet up beneath himself. By the time his tea is ready, there’s a knock on the door. 

Graves opens it to find Tina, Queenie, Newt, and a man he’s never seen before standing on his front porch, each looking weary and sleep-soaked and incredibly grim. He gestures them inside and they all sit down, casting worried glances at Credence. Queenie sits beside him on the sofa, saying something gently in his ear to which he nods, and then putting her arm around his shoulder. He relaxes against her and Graves conceals a little smile behind his mug.

“Percival, this is Errapel, the most talented healer I know,” Newt tells him, and the man nods at Graves. “If anyone can help Credence, it’s him.”

“Thank you for coming, all of you,” Graves says. “I know it’s the middle of the night, but you understand my concern.”

“Of course, honey,” Queenie smiles, somehow still looking effortlessly beautiful even with sleep smudged in lilac hues beneath her eyes, not a hint of makeup on her silk-white face. “We don’t mind.”

Graves explains the pendant and their attempts to remove it; all the while, Credence shrinks further into the cushions. Errapel listens attentively and then looks to Credence. “May I see the mark?”

The man’s voice is accented, leaning heavy on crooked vowels, smooth and low and comforting. Queenie gives Credence’s shoulder one last little squeeze and then gets up, letting Errapel take her spot. 

Credence slips off the blanket and unbuttons his nightshirt, exposing the scar for public viewing once again. Graves can’t tell if he’s imagining it or if the mark looks brighter, more defined. Errapel examines it closely, humming under his breath as he taps on it with two fingers. He runs a hand in front of the skin and watches the colors change.

“It is cursed,” he says grimly as he pulls back. “Mr Scamander has plenty of healing potions, but I’m afraid they won’t do much for Credence. This scar is not simply skin deep.”

“Oh.” Graves feels suddenly light headed and he drops into the armchair by the window. “What — what do we do?”

“I am unsure precisely of the nature of this curse, but I’m sure you’ve ascertained that it’s dark magic. Gellert Grindelwald has a particular brand… curses that he’s developed himself. It’s his life’s work. He is a very powerful wizard.” Errapel gives Newt a meaningful look. “The only way I can imagine is if Grindelwald were to remove the curse himself.”

“Well that’s certainly not going to happen,” Graves hisses. He doesn’t meet Credence’s eyes, but he sees the boy’s expression waver in his peripheral.

“That…” Errapel pauses. “That, or if he is killed.”

“Now, I like the sound of that a lot better,” Queenie says quietly. 

“But what about right now? Is this… could this damage him in any permanent way? Could it—”

He doesn’t have to finish his question. He knows. Credence knows. Everybody knows.

“I don’t believe it can do much more on its own than hurt him,” Errapel says gently. “Although, considering the severity of the pain, that in itself could have consequences.”

Graves puts his face in his hands, rubbing at his tired eyes. “Is there something you can give him for the pain? So he can sleep?”

“I have a few potions that may help. I’ll leave them with you.”

“Thank you.”

Everyone is quiet for a few minutes. Credence buttons back up and pulls the blanket around himself once more. Finally, Newt rises from his seat.

“Is there anything else I can do, Percival?”

Graves shakes his head. “Thank you. I do appreciate this. We should all try to get some sleep.”

As they’re leaving, Graves calls out for Tina. She turns back.

“Tell Picquery,” he says. “I’m coming back to work.” 

 

——————————————

  
  


Credence sleeps soundly through the rest of the night, aided by the rather unpleasant tasting potion Mr Graves coaxes into him between sips of his sugary tea. He wants desperately to ask Mr Graves to stay with him, to sleep beside him. The words perch at the tip of his tongue, words like _please, we can stay in our clothes, we can prop pillows between us, I just need you to be here —_ and at one point, it almost looks like Mr Graves wants to stay, glancing back from the doorway for a moment too long. But then he goes, and Credence feels too ashamed to call after him.

In the morning he’s there, though, perched on the edge of the bed, watching Credence wake up. Light pours in through the venetian blinds, spilling sunbeams across the side of his face.

“Oh,” Credence says, voice scratchy with sleep. “Good morning.”

Mr Graves smiles. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

He nods, rolling onto his back and stretching his arms up behind his head, wondering if he’s going to wake every day to Mr Graves watching him sleep. He considers for a moment and then decides that he wouldn’t mind. “It didn’t burn again. I slept through the night.”

“Good.” Mr Graves gets up, pulling the blinds up to let the rest of the sun roll in, bright and yellow and warm. “Why don’t you come have something to eat, and then we’ll figure out what we’re going to do."

This is the conversation Credence has been dreading. His insides twist with nauseous anticipation. He can already hear Mr Graves’ voice telling him _I’m sorry, I’m sorry Credence, you have to stay with the Goldsteins._ He likes Queenie and Tina, he really does, but he wants to stay with Mr Graves. Here, where he’s safe, where he’ll be protected. He knows he’s terribly selfish for it, but selfishness is not a privilege he’s ever had before.

Mr Graves doesn’t say it yet, though, so he pretends for now that it isn’t happening. He gets dressed once Mr Graves has gone back down the hall, squinting in the flood of morning light. He follows the scent of cooking food to the kitchen where breakfast is served to him, heaps of scrambled eggs and toast and fruit.

“Thank you,” he says bashfully. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Nonsense,” Mr Graves says, and Credence thinks that _nonsense_ may be his new favourite word, because every time Mr Graves says it, it means that he’s done something kind and that Credence deserves it. That he’s not to apologize for his presence or repent for his very existence.

Mr Graves sits down across from him, sipping ink-black coffee from a blue mug. He watches him hawk-eyed as he eats. Credence checks himself, hand shaking around his fork, making sure he’s keeping his mouth shut while he chews, no bites too big, none of the greedy shovelling that Ma used to whip him for.

“Credence, I know you’re afraid right now. I am too.” Mr Graves sighs and reaches absently across the table with one hand, toying with Credence’s fingers. Credence tenses and his insides scream and he tries his best not to launch himself at the man, to topple them both over onto the tile floor until Mr Graves holds him again. He’s staring, imagining the feeling, the warmth, when suddenly Mr Graves is giving him a concerned look. “Credence?”

“Huh?” He starts, a forkful of eggs hovering halfway up to his mouth. He flushes. “Oh, I’m — I’m so sorry, Mr Graves.”

Mr Graves chuckles. “Quite alright, Credence. I know you’re tired. I was just saying that I think you should stay with me, at least for the time being. I won’t be able to sleep soundly without knowing you’re being protected.” He sips his coffee again, and then quickly adds: “If you’re okay with this, of course. If not, I’m sure the Goldsteins would love to host you.”

“Yes,” Credence breathes, and then he swallows hard. “I mean, of course, Mr Graves, I— I would really like to stay here with you.”

“Good. Then it’s settled. And once Grindelwald is in custody and you’re safe, of course, I’ll help you find your own apartment and you can finally have a life of your own.” He takes his hand away and Credence feels himself deflate. Luckily Mr Graves doesn’t notice as he gets up and puts his mug in the sink, checking his wristwatch. Whatever time it shows seems to satisfy him. “Today we’ll go shopping and get you some new clothing and a wand of your own. And then it’s right to work teaching you some defensive magic. Oh, and I’ll… I’ll have to figure out how to go about teaching you to read and write. I’m sure there are some workbooks we can find.”

Credence’s head is already spinning with the promises. Mr Graves wants to teach him magic. Mr Graves wants to teach him how to read. It’s like all of the things he hardly dared to fantasize about, to ever envision, are happening right before him. It doesn’t feel quite real.

Even less real are the shops they go to, with glittering storefronts and mannequins that move around, posing and flaunting the expensive clothing they’re draped in.

“Mr Graves, this is — this is too much,” Credence says nervously, eyes catching on a price tag on a pair of pants.

Mr Graves frowns. “And I thought I chose one of the less conspicuous shops. Don’t worry yourself about it, Credence. It’s a non-issue.”

Credence relents and allows himself to be dressed up and down in various outfits, feeling very out of place in the fine garments. Shiny-buttoned jackets and soft wool sweaters that don’t itch, not even a little bit. Pants that fit him right, that won’t leave his ankles vulnerable to the freezing New York winters. He fights back any pitiable comments about how he’s undeserving — seeing him in comfortable, quality clothing makes Mr Graves look pleased, so he doesn’t dare complain. In the end they leave with several bags, and Credence tries not to feel guilty at the amount Mr Graves spent on him.

“Where are we going now?” He asks as they take to the sidewalk. He hurries his pace to keep up with Mr Graves’ long stride. 

“To get you a wand. One that’s suited for you, so I can teach you some defensive spells.”

Credence makes a little _oh_ of surprise. When Mr Graves had mentioned a wand in passing it all sounded very exciting but he hadn’t dared to imagine it might actually happen. Mr Graves takes him by the arm and guides him into a shop. 

“Just follow my lead,” he murmurs, pulling Credence close to his side.

A tiny bell above the door dances and rings out throughout the dim, cramped little shop. A man emerges from a back room.

“Percival Graves,” he says with a grin, his voice shaky and hoarse with age. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you. I trust you’ve kept our business under wraps, my friend?”

“Of course, Mr Anatemori. Always.”

“Is this the obscurial boy?”

Credence tenses, fingers curling instinctively. His eyes shoot up to Mr Graves, who smiles tightly. His hand moves down to curl around Credence’s waist.

“Yes, this is him. You understand, of course, why I must keep these matters private.”

“Of course,” the man murmurs, peering at Credence through thick-rimmed glasses. “You know my distaste for the way the governments vilify obscurials. Although, I have to say, Percival…” he lowers his voice, as though that will somehow prevent Credence from hearing him. “They don’t tend to live past ten, do they?”

“He’s a special boy,” Mr Graves says fondly, squeezing Credence’s waist. “He’s very powerful, and he’s very much in danger.”

Credence shifts on his feet, leaning into Mr Graves a bit. He cherishes the feeling of being protected by the man, however performative it may be — so he plays it up, letting himself being tucked into Mr Graves’ side, resting his cheek against his chest. Mr Graves has a slow pulse, heart beating in halftime with Credence’s own baby-bird flutter.

“I think I may have found the correct combination. Hawthorn, fourteen inches. Wands with this wood seek those with a complex and troubled nature, as the wands themselves are rather intriguing and unique. They are not easy to master, and can present consequences if given to any wizard but one with exceptional talent. They find their homes in those with a conflicted temperament; those who may be passing through a period of emotional or physical turmoil.”

Credence feels his heart sinking deeper with every word. He’s not cut out for this wand, not cut out for this life — he isn’t a wizard, much less a talented one. He’s a little beast, a dark force, and he doesn’t deserve a wand to begin with.

“Hey,” Mr Graves says softly. “What’s wrong?”

Credence turns his face wordlessly into the man’s chest, blinking back tears against the luxe material of his coat. Mr Graves hand floats up to press protectively onto his back.

“He’s had a rough couple of weeks,” Mr Graves offers as a vague explanation. “I believe that wood will be well suited to him. What is the core?”

“Dragon heartstring.” Mr Anatemori hesitates, clearing his throat. “Though these tend to turn most easily to the dark arts, they will not do so of their own accord. They make powerful wands.”

Mr Graves nods. “Would you like to try it, Credence?”

Credence wants to say no but he knows that’s the wrong answer. He detaches himself reluctantly from the man’s side, staring wide-eyed at the wand in front of him. It’s a rich red-brown colour, intricately carved, looking almost like it’s floating in the velvety interior of its box. He reaches for it, holding it in his hand the way he’d held the wand Grindelwald gave to him. Then, he hadn’t let a single thought pass through his mind, hadn’t given any consideration to his grip or position. He’d just let the magic take over.

Now, he isn’t so sure. 

He holds it out in front of him, and feels Mr Graves’ breath on his neck as the man comes up behind him, correcting his posture, steadying his hand.

“Try _lumos,_ ” he says in a low voice. “Think of light, the brightest light you can imagine.”

“Lumos,” Credence says in a clear voice, wand raised up before him. Nothing happens.

He turns to Mr Graves for guidance and the man smiles patiently. “Try it again.”

His faith in his own ability is waning quickly, but he raises his arm anyway. “ _Lumos!_ ”

A ball of light comes forth from his wand, hovering in the air for a single second before vanishing without a trace. Mr Anatemori stares at the empty space where the light had been for a moment and then nods curtly.

“It will take work, Percival. He’s gone his adolescent life without producing magic with a wand, and he’ll need plenty of practice before he can manage any lasting spells or charms. But this is promising, and I do believe this should be a good fit. At least until… well, you know. Until he’s out of hiding, correct?”

“Thank you,” Mr Graves says, shaking his hand. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet drawstring bag. “I trust this will cover the cost. I appreciate your discretion.”

“As always, Percival.” They turn to the door, Mr Graves guiding Credence along with a hand on his back. “Be careful,” the wandmaker adds, and Mr Graves nods once before they leave the shop.

 

——————————————

 

  
After the wand shop, Graves leads the way to a no-maj bookstore down the street from his apartment. He heads straight for the children’s books, leaving Credence to peruse the shelves of brightly-covered novels at the front, tracing his hand along the spines.

Graves finds several books that he hopes will be useful and pays at the counter, hurrying Credence out and promising they’ll go to a magical bookstore soon enough, which is far more interesting anyway, because all of the pictures move.

Once they’ve collected everything they need, Graves ducks into an alleyway and apparates them back home. Luckily Credence lands in front of the sofa, which he quickly sinks into, and Graves sets the books down on the table by the door.

“We don’t have to start practicing yet. I know you’re tired. We can start tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Credence says gratefully. It’s nearly dinnertime anyway, and Graves heats up what’s left of the stew, apologizing again for the lackluster meals. Credence just stares at him in disbelief.

“Do you have any idea what I ate at the church?”

Graves smirks. “I suppose I don’t feel too guilty, then.”

He flips through the newspaper as they eat, as though something new will have materialized in his absence. It’s filled with the same old arcane stories; nothing of interest, nothing of substance. The moment there’s an advancement in the Grindelwald case, he knows he’ll be the first to hear about it — but still he fears not finding out in time, fears being left in the dark the way he was in that cellar.

They’re quiet after dinner, and Graves can tell Credence is still mulling over all the information thrown at him by the wandmaker. He knows it struck fear into the boy to hear of the tendency for Dragon Heartstring wands to lean toward dark magic, but he hopes he won’t take it too personally. It’s not the wand, but the wizard using it — and Credence is the farthest thing from evil.

“Mr Graves?” He says as they’re relaxing in the sitting room, Graves still staring blankly at the newspaper and Credence flipping through a book full of moving pictures that Graves dug out of a trunk in his office. 

Graves looks up.

“Um.” Credence sounds nervous, fiddling with corner of the page. “You said — you said if they catch Grindelwald, you’ll get the information about who I am.”

“Yes,” Graves says, a little caught off guard. “Of course. I’ll do my best.”

Credence squirms, not meeting his eyes, drawing his feet up beneath himself. “Who do you think…?”

“I don’t know,” Graves says honestly. “Tina mentioned there was a rumour that you were the lost Lestrange boy, but that was disproven.”

Credence nods. “Yes. I don’t know if I was disappointed or not.”

“It wouldn’t really make a difference,” Graves says gently. “You are who you are.”

“Yes, but I want to know,” Credence insists, voice rising a little. He catches himself and takes a breath. “It matters to me, Mr Graves. It does make a difference.”

Graves nods. “Well, if there’s any information in that castle, I’ll find it for you. You have my word.”

“Thank you,” Credence says in a near-whisper.

“Of course, Credence.” Graves moves to sit closer to him, to look over his shoulder at the book he’s reading. Some epic tale of dragons and wizards duelling it out in blasts of wandlight and flames. It’s one of the books he’s kept stored away, ripe with the sentimentality of his younger years. His eyes trace over the page — a brave warrior, wand held high, trudging up a winding path to where the dragon lies in wait. As he watches the illustrated warrior move across the page, his eyes wander to Credence’s hands where they grip the book’s tattered edges. 

His breath hitches in his throat at the sight of the scars. It’s not like he hadn’t known; it’s not like Tina hadn’t told him in the most explicit of terms. Seeing it is another matter, though.

They’re mostly silvery-white, some still a little pink. They criss-cross his palms, some trailing down to his wrists, some wrapping around to the backs of his hands. Credence senses Graves going still and glances up, catching his gaze and following it.

Instantly, he drops the book, pulling his hands into his lap. Breathing hard.

“Credence…”

He shakes his head violently. Trembling all over. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Graves asks gently, reaching out toward where Credence’s hands are folded against his thigh.

“Don’t _touch_ them,” Credence hisses, and he scrambles off the couch and then stands there, staring at Graves, something very new and almost frightening glinting in his eyes. His chest rises and falls with his breath and he looks like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Graves to react, to punish him, to inflict pain and violence and hatred the way everybody else has.

Instead, Graves just gives him a tight smile and then nods. “Time for bed, I think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot heavy chapters are SO hard for me because all i ever want to do is write emotional prose about credence's cheekbones and their mutual pining and all that good stuff. but here we are, and now credence has a wand AND a curse. 
> 
> i'm all for absolutely flipping the end of CoG because no, queenie would not go with grindelwald, she would be kind and smart and affectionate and credence would trust her immediately and she would take care of him. you can't tell me otherwise!!
> 
> errapel is a hebrew name meaning 'divine healer'. anatemori is a name that means artistic/creative. trying to stick with the tendency for names to be significant in the wizarding universe.
> 
> thank you all for reading, and for your lovely comments. they always make my day!!
> 
> [here's the post for this chapter on tumblr!](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/181451140105/read-chapter-6-of-little-beast-on-ao3-credence)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year, everyone!

Credence can’t help but watch Mr Graves.

Eating breakfast, sipping his coffee, flipping through the newspaper in the sitting room. Washing dishes at the sink, heating up food on the stove. In the morning, when Credence walks down the hall from his bedroom, he sometimes sees a glimpse of Mr Graves in the bathroom, leaning over the sink, shaving with a straight razor. It never fails to make Credence’s breath catch in his throat. Mr Graves never nicks himself the way Credence does. He’s always so smooth.

Credence loves to watch his face change with every flicker of emotion: the pinched-forehead annoyance while he flips through MACUSA’s auror reports, the weariness when he comes into the kitchen in the morning, the kindness blooming in his eyes when Credence softly thanks him for a cup of tea. Most of all, he loves to read the inexplicable patience from Mr Graves’ face when he demonstrates the proper hand motion for a spell for the fifth time, never once growing irritated with Credence or snapping at him.

Teaching Credence magic does not seem to be going the way Mr Graves had planned.

He feels horribly rueful about it all; if he knew how to read, he could study the spell books, and it wouldn’t mean so much frustrating work for Mr Graves. He feels entirely helpless, and the sense of being a burden weighs heavier and heavier with each passing day. Though he often catches himself thinking  _my bedroom_ in his head, he knows that really it’s a guest bedroom, and at the end of the day, he’s a guest. He doesn’t really live here. The longer he stays, the longer he’s a nuisance in Mr Graves’ busy life, and that’s the last thing he wants to be. Maybe if he wasn’t so slow, maybe if he could  _learn,_ he would be less of an inconvenience.

He gives up one evening when Mr Graves is trying to teach him the disarming spell. No matter how many times he points his wand at the man and says  _expelliarmus_ , nothing happens besides a feeble twitch in Mr Graves’ hand that could easily have nothing to do with magic.

“Maybe he was right,” Credence says miserably after his sixth attempt, flopping down on the sofa. “Maybe I am a… a  _squib._ ”

“Credence, you know that you aren’t a squib,” Mr Graves says patiently, moving to his knees before him. Credence tenses. He hates when Mr Graves does this. He shouldn’t be kneeling on the floor. He shouldn’t be lower than Credence, he shouldn’t be looking up at him, he shouldn’t be down there. That’s where Credence should sit. “You are positively radiant with magic. There’s no doubt about it. He was too blind to see that.”

“Then why can’t I  _do_  anything?” Credence is quickly embarrassed by his own whining. He clears his throat. “When I was at Grindelwald’s castle I used my wand. I made a mountain explode. And now I can’t even do the simplest spells.”

Mr Graves puts his big hand over Credence’s smaller one, smoothing his thumb across papery knuckles. “Making something explode was likely just a product of your obscurus, not an actual spell. But that doesn’t mean you did something wrong, and it doesn’t mean you can’t learn. I promise you that it will happen soon. Let’s try again.”

He straightens up and steps back, wand held up in his hand. “Keep your arm steady. Picture my wand flying away. Speak loudly and clearly. Okay?”

Credence nods, clenching his jaw. He stands up too, widening his stance and pointing his wand forward. “ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

Nothing happens. Credence drops his arm dejectedly and Mr Graves sighs. “You’ll get the hang of it eventually. You—”

Credence looks up, and Mr Graves’ wand shoots out of his hand. He takes a step back in shock. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even raise his wand…

“Well,” Mr Graves breathes, going to retrieve his own wand. “Looks like you’ve advanced to wandless magic already. Honestly, I’m not very surprised considering the power of your obscurus. A wand may really be more of a hinderance at this point, though you should still learn how to use it. Certain spells require it.”

“I… did that?”

“You did that,” Mr Graves agrees.

Credence stares at him again, clenching his jaw, and once more the wand shoots from his hand. Mr Graves raises his eyebrows.

“I’m not a squib!”

“I told you you’re not a squib,” Mr Graves says, and the amused smile on his face makes Credence’s heart flip-flop in his chest. “You’re a very talented boy. A very talented man. With more practice, you’ll figure out the wand, and you’ll be able to direct your magic a bit more. Would you like to try it again?”

Credence nods, feeling something like pride rising in his throat as Mr Graves picks up his wand once more.

 

——————————————

 

Watching Credence progress with his magic is like watching a rescue dog grow up. Graves feels a tad guilty at the comparison, but it’s not inaccurate: Credence came to him as a kicked puppy, beaten down all his life by a cruel adoptive mother whose abuse nearly killed him, thrown directly into the clutches of a manipulative, exploitative man who would have done the job himself the moment Credence stopped being useful. But now, given space and time and patience, he’s slowly beginning to flourish rather than languish, and it’s quite a sight to behold.

Graves still wishes he could explore the dark interior of Credence’s head, the tragic insides that crash against the dome of his skull, only showing through when his eyes catch the light. There’s something to the baby-curve of his neck, the disarming warmth with which he speaks, that defies every square inch of his harrowing past. If Graves were a legilimens, he’d slip into the boy’s mind and turn more pages than he ever did in school, absorb every modicum of information he could find inside that sweet, mysterious head of his. When he looks at Credence, sometimes he thinks he can almost see it: a little shine in the black of his eyes, a momentary reflection of something  _other._

But it’s always gone as quickly as it comes, and Graves is left to wonder whether he’d only imagined it.

Teaching him magic is as exhilarating as it is frustrating. Credence doesn’t use his wand, but it’s only their first week of practicing, and so Graves lets it slide. The alphabet workbooks don’t move from where he’d stacked them at the table by the door, and Graves eyes them dubiously every time he passes by. He doesn’t know quite what his hesitation is — concerns of inadequacy, maybe, or his nagging worry that he’ll embarrass the boy. Who is he to teach Credence how to read? He should hire a proper tutor; he should find someone who isn’t emotionally attached.

_Emotionally attached_. His insides twist when he realizes the implication. He’s avoided thinking about it so far, though it’s difficult with the darling boy gliding around his home day in and day out, eating at his dinner table, sipping tea while curled up on his sofa. It’s been two weeks since he brought him here, and already he finds himself growing far too fond of the furrowed expression of focus on Credence’s face when he’s practicing his spells, the sleepy heaviness to his eyes in the morning, the way he walks around the house so quietly, nearly tiptoeing by default. He’s learned for so long to make himself silent that it’s grown to be his natural composition.

Graves wants to break him out of his hardened shell, chip away at the years of callouses he’s been forced to build, let him be open and free with his softness. After twenty years of being abused, of being  _hit,_ the fact that he’s salvaged any kindness at all is a miracle, let alone that he’s still so gentle and compassionate and sweet. Graves finds himself entirely in awe of Credence, and he can’t help but notice how often he thinks of him.

And further still, how well he’s been sleeping.

Really, Graves should be grateful he can sleep at all — seven months in the suffocating dark of that cellar gave him enough material for a lifetime of nightmares, but recently he’s been making it through the night, hardly ever waking up in gasping terror the way he did those three weeks in the hospital. He can’t chalk it all up to the quiet presence one room over, but he thinks that just maybe he sleeps more soundly when he’s got somebody else’s night terrors to soothe.

But it’s been several weeks, and Credence’s scar hasn’t burned again since that first night — though Graves still catches the boy’s hand floating up to his chest, pressing down over the mark. He’s not going to forget about it until it’s gone, and according to Newt’s healer, it’s not going anywhere until Grindelwald is killed.

It’s late when he sends Credence to bed one evening after hours of practice with basic spells. Graves turns in himself with another report from Tina, mulling over a review that seems to highlight more of a lack of information than any information itself. He sighs as he thumbs through the pages, scanning over line after line of nonsense from some new junior auror Picquery’s hired on. It’s embarrassing, really. They’re floundering without him.

By the time he finally shuts out his light and turns over to sleep, it’s well past midnight. He finds his mind wandering to Credence, alone in the guest room, wrapped up in quilts, face so soft in his sleep. He reaches down between his legs but quickly draws back. It seems inherently sinful to think of Credence that way, as though he’s violating the boy without his knowledge. Graves tucks his hands firmly under his pillow and closes his eyes.

He must not have slept for more than a couple hours when there’s a knock at his door. Slowly, it creaks open and Graves blinks a few times, rubbing at his eyes as they adjust to the half-darkness, dim light streaming in from the hallway.

Credence is standing there in his nightclothes, hair a little unkempt, hands tucked away in the too-long sleeves of his shirt.

“Mr Graves,” he whispers.

Graves wonders momentarily if it’s a dream, another invasive and unwanted and entirely inappropriate concoction of his mind, always surrounding this boy, though he knows very well that they shouldn’t. But Credence is indisputably real, there in the doorway, long and lanky and beautiful.

“Credence,” he says back. “Is everything okay?”

“Will you come and sit with me?”

Credence rarely, if ever, asks for anything. That alone would be enough to express the severity of his fear, though the tear tracks on his face speak quite clearly as Graves gets out of bed, stretching a little, and smiles at him.

“Of course. I’ll make us a warm drink.”

He chooses hot cocoa rather than tea, half because he’s out of anything that isn’t caffeinated and half because he thinks Credence would probably prefer something sweet. He seems to be right, because Credence looks very pleased after the first sip, cheeks pink and still a little shiny.

They finish their drinks without talking, enjoying the quiet calm of the house, both too late and too early for any of the daytime chaos that tends to fill the streets outside. Side by side on the small couch, they’re so close, and Graves has to resist the urge to reach out and wipe the little notch of chocolate above the boy’s lip when he takes too big a sip.

When Credence finally sets down his mug, his eyes flit to Graves’ face, not quite meeting his eyes, resting somewhere near his cheek. “Is it okay if I…”

Awkwardly, clumsily, he lowers himself to sit on the floor at Graves’ feet. Graves stiffens momentarily and Credence flinches, a trademark reaction of someone trained to expect punishment. Graves takes a breath.

“Of course, Credence. Of course it’s okay.”

Credence visibly relaxes, quickly folding himself up with his knees to his chest, practiced, as though he’s sat this way one hundred times before. Graves’ mind goes to Grindelwald, and then further to Grindelwald in his body, and he has to force the thoughts away before they cause him to yank Credence back up onto the couch. This alone gives him a strange and unsettling feeling — he does not want Credence to be submissive or subservient; he does not want Credence to purposely make himself smaller and quieter in order to be pleasing or to serve some idea of  _Mr Graves_ that he has in his mind.

But it’s presumptuous to believe that’s how Credence feels, and if this brings him some small bit of comfort, then Graves is more than happy to comply.

He drops his hand onto Credence’s head, sinking his fingers into the boy’s hair, which is growing out surprisingly fast. “Nightmares?”

Credence nods, his cheek brushing Graves’ knee. “About Nurmengard. Being trapped there in a cage, like… like in the circus.”

“The circus?” Graves asks softly. Tina had mentioned it in passing, but he’d never pressed for details. Credence inches closer, finally letting his head rest fully against Graves’ knee. Graves pets his hair encouragingly, making sure he knows that this is okay. That he’s allowed.

“It seemed like my only choice when I got to Paris. I was…” he shakes his head, frowning, as if scolding himself for his own thoughts. “I was barely alive. I needed money and some place to sleep. But they kept me in a cage and made me turn into the obscurus over and over again. I escaped with my friend Nagini. She came with me to look for my mother. But then I left her.”

His voice is shaking a bit by the end of it, as if he might start crying again. Graves lets his hand trail down to Credence’s cheek, thumbing behind his ear. “You did your best, Credence. Maybe we can find her again someday.”

Credence looks up at him hopefully. “You think so?”

Graves smiles. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Do you think I’ll ever be able to use my wand?”

“Yes,” Graves says emphatically. “I have no doubt you can do anything that any other wizard can do, and then much beyond that. These things take time. You know, most kids grow up going to school for magic. They spend day in and day out of their adolescent years being taught by an academy full of teachers. You didn’t have that, and even further, you were forced to repress your powers. You’re doing so well, considering.”

Credence’s smile is watery. “Thank you,” he says softly, and Graves thinks he can feel the brush of Credence’s lips on his knee through the fabric of his pants. “I really am trying so hard.”

“I know.” Graves’ hand moves to the nape of Credence’s neck and abruptly the boy goes very still. Graves squeezes once and then quickly takes his hand away, glancing up at the clock on the wall. It’s well past three. “We really should get some sleep. We can start working on more defensive spells tomorrow.”

Credence’s face falls, turning paler by the second. “I might… I might just stay up, Mr Graves, I’m—”

“Credence,” Graves says gently, waiting until he turns his face up to meet his eyes. “Would you be less afraid if you slept in my bed with me?”

There’s a moment, a beat of silence and stillness, and then Credence nods.

Graves’ bed is very big. Realistically, it’s big enough that the two of them could sleep in it together and never once take notice of the other’s presence. But nevertheless they find themselves in the very center, facing to face, foreheads only inches apart. In the dark of the room, the whites of Credence’s eyes look blue, and his irises very, very black.

Graves reaches out with one hand and thumbs behind Credence’s ear, resting his palm against the nape of his neck again. Credence twitches, but then goes soft and relaxed, watching Graves’ face carefully.

“You know I’m going to keep you safe, don’t you?”

He needs Credence to know this. Needs him to know that yes, maybe they’d never really met before, and yes, at first he was eager to pass him off to the Goldsteins, but not anymore. Not now that he knows him, not now that he’s seen the truth of who Credence is. Not now.

“Yes,” Credence whispers. “I know.”

“Good.” Graves gives him a little smile, stroking the back of his neck, pulling him incrementally closer, although he swears it’s subconscious.

“Grindelwald told me I attract abuse,” Credence says with a frown. “Because Ma, and then… and then you, but it wasn’t really you, and then the circus. He said I’m too soft, and that makes people want to hurt me.”

There’s something so genuine in Credence’s voice that it’s almost agonizing, and Graves could swear he feels something inside himself splintering. Anger wells up in his throat like a choked back scream while he stares at the slight downward curl of Credence’s lips.

“He’s a liar and a thief,” Graves says quietly. “He’s a cruel and heartless man. Maybe your softness made him want to hurt you, but it makes me want to protect you. To nurture it and preserve it. This world can be so  _dark,_ Credence.” He can hear his voice shaking, distantly, and he wills himself to steady it. “I know that you feel like the world turned it’s back on you, and that everybody wants to hurt you, but you are one of the only parts of this awful world I think is worth saving. Look at you. Grindelwald himself couldn’t break you. Nothing will.”

Credence is biting hard on his lower lip, staring down at his hands, curled together between their bodies. “You didn’t even have to come for me.”

“But I did.”

“You did.” His eyes come back up to meet Graves’ own and they’re silent for a few moments, watching each other, as though both are afraid the other might run off screaming if they make another move. The room feels like it’s slowly growing smaller, every table and lamp and scrap of wallpaper vanishing until there’s nothing left but the two of them, almost skin to skin — just barely.

“I didn’t think my magic could ever be something good,” Credence says. “Because the obscurus feels so bad. I thought it would just eat and eat at me until I disappeared. I didn’t think it could… it could turn into something that’s powerful in a good way.”

“Credence,” Graves says softly. “What does it feel like, when it… I mean. What does it feel like when you change over?”

The boy’s eyes are wide and watery and bright. He blinks at him a few times.

“It hurts to become,” Credence whispers.

And then he kisses him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the slow burn officially ends here!
> 
> 'it hurts to become' is a favourite quote of mine from andrea gibson - _i said to the sun, tell me about the big bang / the sun said, 'It hurts to become.'_ i thought it was fitting :)
> 
>  
> 
> [here's the post for this chapter on tumblr!](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/181681214370/read-chapter-7-of-little-beast-on-ao3-credence)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise!
> 
> i'm going to start updating thursdays AND sundays - half because you guys have been so lovely and kind with your comments and messages, and half because i'm just way too excited to share the rest of this story :)
> 
> note that the rating has gone from mature to explicit... enjoy!!

Credence’s kiss is clumsy and very, very soft. He doesn’t quite seem to know where to put his lips or what to do with them. Graves is so stunned in the moment that he just lays there dumbly, letting Credence experiment and move his mouth against Graves’ own, feeling the boy falter after each motion. His heart is thrashing so madly that he worries his ribcage might splinter.

By the time he’s gathered himself together enough to kiss him back, Credence is retreating, looking embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s quite alright,” Graves tells him, because it really, really is. “Would you like to try again?”

Credence looks surprised and a little confused, but eventually he ducks his head in and does it again, close-mouthed and nervous. He goes to pull back once more but Graves uses the hand on his nape to his advantage, urging Credence closer, tilting his head and opening his mouth to the kiss. Credence panics briefly but then figures out how to open his mouth as well, and suddenly everything is warm and wet and very sweet. Credence makes a soft sound against Graves’ teeth that causes him to denounce any qualms he ever had about the matter.

Credence is here, against him, warm and solid and so very alive. These things he is grateful for.

“Do you like that, Credence?” He asks, because it’s not as if the boy is going to speak up for himself on the matter. A gentle urging is necessary, and Graves doesn’t mind.

“Yes,” Credence whispers, and then he leans in for another kiss. This one is slower and deeper, and he learns quickly how to turn his head and slot their mouths together, his tongue poking out and searching for Graves’ own, which responds eagerly.

They kiss somewhat like the world is ending around them. It takes him a moment to notice the way Credence's hands are grasping the front of his shirt; the way he squirms closer to Graves every time they stop to take a breath. After several minutes that feel like tiny, golden lifetimes within themselves, Graves pulls back. His hand trails up to Credence’s hair, petting through it softly. 

“Was that okay?” Credence asks, sounding awfully nervous.

“More than okay.” Graves smiles, cupping his cheek. “Was it okay for you?”

“More than okay,” Credence repeats, matching Graves’ intonation. And then he grins. Graves wishes he could tell Credence that he has surprisingly beautiful teeth, or that his lips are like two small miracles on the absolute daydream of his face, without scaring him too much.

“Credence, you know that I’m…” He worries his lower lip between his teeth, staring at the pointed tip of Credence's nose instead of his dark and searching eyes. “You know I’m more than twice your age.”

“I don’t mind,” Credence says, a little cheeky. “If you don’t mind.”

“Other people might mind,” Graves reminds him.

Credence frowns. “Then let them mind.”

Graves moves forward and kisses him again, except this time it’s with his whole body. Credence is baby-soft beneath him, supine and glowing in the white-blue moonlight that pours in through the window. He gasps a little and Graves swallows the sound, keeping his hips lifted carefully as though the boy beneath him is a fragile and wispy thing, as though he might be shattered if Graves presses too forcefully.

“Has anyone ever touched you this way?” He asks softly. Credence shakes his head, a quick and jerky movement, staring up at Graves with wide, uncertain eyes, as if he’s afraid he’ll change his mind and push him away.

But Graves doesn’t, just kisses him again, and Credence becomes very insistent, kissing him back harder, hands coming up to clutch at Graves’ shirt once more, body silently begging for something Graves isn’t sure Credence can understand. And despite the whispery, parasitic guilt that's eating away at his insides, reminding him that Credence is a virgin, that the kid hasn't even been  _kissed_ before — there isn't space for a second thought inside Graves' head when he looks down at the boy, spread out beneath him like some beautiful, unearthly little creature, looking at him like he's building the world before his very eyes. 

Graves lets his hips drop. He can feel straight away the stiffness in Credence’s soft pyjama pants. He kisses a trail from the corner of Credence’s mouth down to his neck, licking up behind his ear and relishing the way Credence twitches and tugs Graves closer by handfuls of his shirt.

Graves rolls over onto his back, ignoring Credence’s small sound of protest, pulling the boy up onto his side until he’s half-draped across Graves’ body, legs straddling Graves’ thigh. The shapes of their arousal only inches apart, separated by a few thin layers. Credence makes a soft _oh_  and then squeezes his legs together, his eyes fluttering shut. A cruel part of Graves yearns to make him ask for what he wants, if only to hear him say it, but he knows that Credence doesn’t even have the vocabulary for that yet. So he stays there, letting himself be a firm and warm place for Credence to push against, learning himself, learning his pleasure.

“Mr Graves,” Credence whimpers, and the sound makes Graves' own erection twitch. He feels scraped raw with wanting, but it's enough to watch Credence's exploration, so careful and yet so needy and immature.

“Take what you need, Credence,” Graves says, as gently as he can. “Don’t be scared.”

Credence keeps closing his eyes, keeps turning his head into the pillows, and so Graves reaches forward and grasps the boy’s jaw, tilting his face toward him. 

“Don’t make me keep doing this,” Graves says, tone half-teasing but firm. “I want you to look at me, Credence. Be here. Be here with me.”

“I’m here,” Credence whispers, jaw going slack as he pushes his hips in nervous little thrusts against Graves’ thigh. The silky material of his pyjamas is so thin that Graves can feel everything, the warmth and weight and shape; it’s a blessing and a curse.

“Sweet boy,” he says reverently. “Would you like me to touch you?”

Credence’s eyes are glossy and wide, bottomless midnight, dark as the city sky and twice as radiant. His lips part to answer but Graves is already pressing one hand to the warm fabric between his legs, a bit damp where the head of his cock leaks out shyly. Credence’s eyes flutter shut and he whimpers: “Mr Graves, wait, I think I—”

Graves doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t even blink as Credence shudders and his head drops forward, the tip of his nose pressing against Graves’ collarbone, his mouth letting out the gentlest, sweetest little sound as wetness spreads across Graves’ motionless hand. Credence’s hips stutter and twitch, awkwardly pushing into Graves’ palm a few more times until his cock stops pulsing beneath the fabric.

Before the boy can cry from shame or apologize, Graves presses a kiss to his sweaty forehead. “Did that feel good for you, darling? It felt very good for me.”

Credence looks up, damp lips kissed-red and parted, brow furrowed slightly. “It — it felt good for you?”

Graves smiles and reaches out to pet behind Credence’s ear the way he seems to like. “It can feel good even when you aren’t being touched. You’ll come to learn that. It feels good to watch you feel good.”

“O-oh,” Credence says faintly, and he sounds very overwhelmed.

Graves indulges himself in one more kiss against Credence’s lips and then sits himself up. “Why don't you get washed up, and then we’ll try to finally get some sleep.”

“Mr Graves,” Credence says, fumbling to sit up. “Don’t you want— can’t I—”

“It’s okay, Credence. What I want is for you to be well rested. Come on, now.”

 

——————————————

  


Credence feels unsteady on his legs as Mr Graves helps him to the bathroom. He leaves him with his privacy, turning back to the bedroom, and Credence stands at the sink, toes curling against the cold tile floor, his jaw working as he eyes himself in the mirror.

_Sinner,_ Ma’s voice shrieks in his head. _Filthy invert._

It had felt so natural, so effortless and pure when Mr Graves was with him, touching him — when he’s there, everything makes sense. When he’s there, Credence doesn’t have to second guess himself, or feel ashamed or stupid or weak. The way Mr Graves touches him makes the wretched thing inside of him cry with joy. But as soon as he’s alone, the reality of it all hits him, sinking like a stone in his belly that never hits bottom. 

He wishes he could explain. He knows that sometimes he and Mr Graves speak very different languages.

His knuckles are white where they clutch the edges of the countertop, his burning eyes blinking back the tears that threaten to spill over. He tries desperately to ground himself, to remind himself where he is: _here I am, in Mr Graves’ bathroom. I can feel the marble countertop in my hands. I can feel the cold floor under my feet. I can feel the silk on my legs, the hair on my neck—_

But it’s useless; he’s fading, he’s slipping into smoke and God, it hurts, and he hates it hates it _hates_ it. He makes no sound but a shuddering gasp as his hands disappear, watching in the mirror as his face starts to shatter in slow motion, everything burning burning _burning._

“Credence? Are you alright?” Mr Graves knocks on the door with the back of his hand, never his fist. Credence knows this. Somehow, it means something to him.

Credence can’t answer, can’t speak; he’s a quiet little storm cloud and he hovers at the ceiling, and he could collect himself back together if he were strong, if he weren’t so craven and useless and weak. 

Part of him wants Mr Graves to come in. He didn’t lock the door. He feels guilty for wanting it, for needing to be rescued over and over again by the man who was never meant to rescue him in the first place. The other part of him wants Mr Graves to leave, to give up, to walk away from the door and from the bedroom and out of the house forever. It’s a ridiculous thought. This is Mr Graves’ house. Credence is the stranger, the one who doesn’t belong.

“Credence, I’m going to come in. Is that okay?”

Credence shrinks into the corner of the ceiling, an ink-black cobweb, a little demon nestled on the fringes of Mr Graves’ beautiful home. 

“Oh, Credence,” Mr Graves says breathlessly as he opens the door and takes in the awful scene before him. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Won’t you come down?”

Credence shrinks himself further and further until he finally reforms, huddled against the back wall like a sulky child. But Mr Graves doesn’t seem irritated or impatient — he just smiles and crouches down to his level, the way Newt did in the subway station, the way the old Mr Graves never would. There's a knot in Credence's tight stomach like a fist, opening its heavy fingers to seize his lungs and  _twist._

“Credence, I’m sorry for sending you in here alone. What we just did was very vulnerable and a brand new thing for you. I should have kept you close to me. Will you forgive me?”

Will _he_ forgive _Mr Graves_? After he’s the one who went off and got upset for no reason, made him worry, ruined the whole of the night? “I — I don’t…"

“You can rinse off in the shower. I’ll stay right here. How does that sound?”

He’s still crouched down, and Credence is very ashamed. Mr Graves shouldn’t have to crouch for him. He straightens himself up and Mr Graves mirrors his movements. “Okay.”

Mr Graves runs the shower and politely looks away as Credence undresses. He steps into the shower and Mr Graves pulls the door closed behind him — glass, but marbled, obscuring him into a blurred silhouette. Credence is grateful for this; he knows his body is ugly, riddled with scars, his private parts rather unsightly and shameful. He washes himself carefully, ridding his skin of the sticky secretion, just like all those mornings back at the church when he’d wake damp and burning, doing his best to scrub away any evidence lest Ma realize what he’d done.

He would touch himself, sometimes, in a fit of shame and desperation. Usually after his meetings with the old Mr Graves, when the man would stroke his face and hug him close and whisper things against his ear, thumb working over Credence’s neck, fingertips dancing across his palms, making him _want_ things for the very first time. But he would never let himself finish, never tip himself over the edge into full-fledged sin. Ma would have known; she would have beat him blind for even considering it. He would grip himself hard in one rough palm, stroke himself and think of Mr Graves’ kind eyes, his slicked back hair, his strong shoulders and his expensive coat, and then just as he felt like he was crawling towards release, he’d yank his hands back, turn over, squeeze his legs together and _hate_ himself. 

He’d feel it sometimes in dreams, awful, sinful dreams, but now — in real life, in his waking mind, it’s so much more. He’s overwhelmed even beginning to remember the feeling of Mr Graves’ hand pressing between his legs, the sudden burst of warmth that coursed through his entire body, the way he couldn’t bear to keep his eyes open because it was so _much._ Something like death and rebirth all at once; some new kind of worship that belongs to nobody but himself and Mr Graves. He feels like a puppy with a new trick, a child with a new toy, and he wants to do it again again  _again._

He realizes he’s been taking far too much time just to rinse off, so he shuts off the water and instantly there’s a towel being passed over the shower door to him. Once he's dried off, he wraps it as tightly around himself as he can manage, hiding in the lush red towel, so big and soft and so unlike the ratty little things he used at the church.

“Feeling better?” Mr Graves asks gently, and Credence nods. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Not to worry, darling. May I hold you?”

That takes Credence by surprise, but he nods again, gratefully. He stays bundled up, keeping the towel tight around him as Mr Graves wraps his arms over Credence’s shoulders, his back. Holding him close, cocooning him in warmth. Credence bites back any fretful comments about Mr Graves’ nightclothes getting damp.

He looks at himself in the mirror over Mr Graves’ shoulder: chin pressed into the soft fabric of the man’s nightshirt, hair falling into his eyes, dripping curls leaving a wet patch on Mr Graves’ back. His own skin is pink and soft and he looks rather peaceful, the tension draining from his body slow like honey, going more lax and pliant the longer Mr Graves holds onto him. Part of him wants to fold into Mr Graves' body so close and so tight that they fuse together and he never has to detach himself. Part of him wants Mr Graves to crush him into tiny pieces until he's nothing but Credence-fragments left scattered on the shiny tile floor.

The mirror is already beginning to defog by the time Mr Graves lets him go. 

“I’ll get you some fresh clothes,” he says, and he leaves the door open, even when Credence gets changed. He knows Credence doesn’t want to be alone. 

When he gets back in bed, Mr Graves pulls him close against his chest, one arm tucked beneath his neck, the other curled around his body, hand pressed over his heart.

“If I have a nightmare—”

“It would be a pleasure to be woken by you,” Mr Graves says, and kisses his ear. It makes Credence’s head feel light.

That night, Credence doesn’t have any nightmares; not a single one.

 

——————————————

  


Graves wakes to a warm and slightly sweaty Credence still tucked sweetly in his arms. He’s careful not to move around too much, not wanting to disturb the boy’s apparently peaceful sleep. He yawns into Credence’s soft hair, craning his neck to check the bedside clock. It’s nearly noon; they both needed the rest.

Credence squirms, turning onto his back and then onto his other side to face Graves, eyes blinking open, half-crossed in his sleepiness. Graves chuckles quietly.

“You slept well, I take it.”

“Mm. So did you.” Credence snuggles closer, and then frowns. “What does this mean?”

“What does what mean?”

“This,” Credence repeats, gesturing down at their bodies, intertwined in the twisted sheets. “What do we… I mean. What are we going to do?”

Graves smiles, a little amused. “What would you like to do?”

“I — I don’t know,” Credence says breathlessly, as though he didn’t expect to be given a choice.

“Well.” Graves lets out a long breath, turning onto his back and staring up at the high ceiling. “I’d like to have breakfast and certainly some coffee. And then I would like to continue practicing your spells, and maybe start working on your reading. And then I was thinking we could go out for dinner, perhaps to a little Italian place up the road that I’m fond of. How does that sound?”

“Oh,” Credence says softly, not doing well to conceal his disappointment. “Well, okay.”

Graves turns to him again, one hand coming out to cup the back of his neck, pulling Credence’s sweet little face against his chest. “And between all of those things,” he says in a low voice, “I would very much like to kiss you breathless.”

“Oh,” Credence repeats, his voice hardly more than a squeak. “Okay.”

They have eggs and toast and fruit for breakfast, and Graves makes sure to be patient and stay at the table until Credence has finished every last bite. He’s come to learn that Credence will always eat slowly, but as soon as Graves stops, he will too. A latent and likely conditioned politeness, like he’s afraid he’ll be disciplined for some imagined greed. Instead of trying to force the quirks out of the boy, Graves is content to stay at the table, sitting back and finishing his coffee as Credence nibbles at his last piece of toast.

“Which spells would you like to work on today?”

“Mm,” Credence says, swallowing and wiping a little smear of jam from his lip. “Maybe we should start doing some more defensive spells. Just… just in case.”

Graves raises his eyebrows. “Planning on picking some fights?”

Credence smirks. “Depends. Are you in the mood?”

That draws a laugh from him. “Sassy this morning, are you? Something about being spread out in my bed got you feeling cocky?”

Credence turns red and nearly chokes on a strawberry. “Mr _Graves._ ”

“I can certainly show you some defensive spells, but I can’t promise we’ll make any progress with those today. I think we should try to get you using your wand more.”

Credence shifts in his seat, pushing his empty plate away from himself and leaning his elbows on the table. “It’s easier without it.”

“It’s more reliable with it.”

“Yes, but—”

“Hey,” Graves says gently. “Who’s the teacher here? You’ve got to trust me, Credence, if we wantto make any progress.”

“Okay,” Credence says in a very quiet voice.

“Don’t sulk,” Graves tells him, picking up both their plates and carrying them into the kitchen. “And don’t think I’m upset with you,” he calls back over his shoulder. “I’m never upset with you, darling. I’m only trying to help.”

Credence doesn’t respond, but as Graves gets to work washing dishes in the sink he feels a pair of skinny arms wrap around his waist, a cheek press to his shoulder. “Thank you.”

They prepare to practice in the living room again, though Graves keeps reminding himself that he should find another place for them to do this. Preferably an empty field or an abandoned building somewhere, not a small room with valuable items strewn everywhere. He won’t say it to Credence — he knows the poor boy would take offence, he already considers his obscurus an evil and harmful thing — but he’s still a little nervous every time Credence casts a _reducto_ spell in front of his fine china cabinet.

“I don’t want to be the obscurus anymore,” Credence says as they’re hiding breakables away in cabinets — casual, as though he’s commenting on the weather. “It hurts, and I don’t like it. It feels like it’s eating me up inside.”

“Ah,” Graves says. “Well, I don’t have much experience in that area. I can talk to Newt about it.”

“No,” Credence says quickly. “I can figure it out on my own, I just…” he huffs out a breath, hugging his elbows. “I have to learn to control myself better.”

“You know, it isn’t weakness,” Graves says gently. “It doesn’t mean you have no self control, or that your power is untameable. You’re just different.”

The words sound flat and unconvincing even to himself.

Credence looks up at him with all the patience of a saint, as though he knows Graves can’t possibly understand. “It hurts,” he repeats. “I know it isn’t my fault, but it hurts, and I don’t want to hurt anymore.”

It’s such a simple statement but it hits Graves like a blow to the heart. He wants to cross the room and hold Credence in his arms, wrap him up and keep him safe. He simply nods, though, and continues searching for a spot for his porcelain vase. “Okay. I think you have quite a bit of self-control, and you can certainly learn to manage it.”

He’s speaking out of his ass, of course, because he knows next to nothing on the topic of obscurials. All the research he’s done has told him they die as children, so that puts a damper on the relevance of any other details he could gleam from books and reports. But if Credence has survived this long with the obscurus inside of him, why couldn’t he learn to control it?

Breakables and valuables locked away, Graves turns back to him. “Let’s teach you to fight, then.”

 

——————————————  


 

Credence rather begrudgingly keeps his wand in hand, pointing it squarely at Mr Graves’ chest. His arm shakes. Mr Graves had calmly explained moments ago that Credence is to _stupefy_ him, which may, if it works, knock him unconscious. If it does, Credence is to use the _rennervate_ spell, which should effectively wake him up. Credence doesn’t feel all too certain that he’ll be able to counteract the charm, and the thought makes his mind race to unpleasant conclusions.

But Mr Graves believes he can do it, and that means something. So Credence focuses all his willpower on what he wants to do — the first step in the matter is convincing himself that he really _wants_ to knock Mr Graves unconscious — and cries out, “ _Stupefy!_ ”

Nothing happens. His hand trembles around his wand. Mr Graves nods at him encouragingly. “Go ahead. Try again.”

He tries again, and again, and still nothing happens.

“Maybe it’s because I’m scared it’ll work,” Credence admits. “Mr Graves, what if I can’t wake you back up?”

“Don’t worry about that, now. I’ll wake up one way or another. Come on, let’s try again. Be angry, Credence. Remember the way he hurt you. Look at me and remember the way he spoke to you, wearing my face. Feel that anger. That hurt. And channel it.”

Credence breathes in slow, his eyes narrowing as he stares at Mr Graves. The man’s expression has gone stone cold, not an inkling of feeling left, and Credence remembers the alleyways, remembers the church, remembers Mr Graves finding him there and dismissing him, hitting him — 

He throws his wand aside and shouts, _“Stupefy!”_

Mr Graves flies backwards and onto the floor, entirely unconscious.

“Mr Graves!” Credence cries out in horror, nearly tripping over himself as he runs to the man’s side, dropping to his knees and staring at Mr Graves’ motionless face, stomach sinking low with dread. He scrambles to recall the counteractive spell, and what if he can’t fix it? What if it doesn’t work? He takes a deep breath to steady himself and then smooths a hand across Mr Graves’ cheek.

“Rennervate,” he whispers.

Mr Graves’ eyes open. He blinks once, and then his face splits into a grin. “You did it! Merlin, you really did it. My head hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” Credence says fretfully, voice full to the brim with repentant fear, tensing in wait of his punishment. “I didn’t listen. I didn’t use my wand.”

“It’s okay,” Mr Graves says softly, reaching up to cup Credence’s cheek, running a thumb across his cheekbone. “You’re so powerful, Credence, it’s amazing. The wand is a formality. I’d like you to be able to use it, eventually, but you’ve already advanced far past what many wizards your age can do. Many wizards of any age, really.” He pulls himself up to sit, leaning back against the wall and studying Credence with a very fond expression. “I’m rather enamoured by you, do you know that?”

Credence smiles shyly, feeling the warmth of praise soaking into him. “I had some idea.”

“Oh, you coy little thing. Come here.”

Credence is delighted when Mr Graves pulls him in for a kiss. In less than a day, he’s already grown obsessed with kissing. He knows he isn’t very good at it yet, but Mr Graves is, he can tell as much. When Mr Graves kisses him, it makes him feel warm all over, and not at all ashamed. Sometimes they keep their mouths closed, and then it’s a soft and quiet thing, a reassurance; sometimes Mr Graves opens his mouth and puts a hand on the back of Credence’s head and his tongue comes out and traces Credence’s teeth, and Credence opens his mouth and their tongues stroke together, and it makes his head feel light and his belly stir with want for something he isn’t certain of.

“Would you like to keep practicing?” Mr Graves murmurs.

What Credence would like to do is stay here on the floor and be kissed for hours, but of course that isn’t very realistic. So he nods. “Can we try a different one?”

By late afternoon, he’s gotten the hang of _lumos_ and _accio_ (which Mr Graves tells him may not be defensive, but are quite useful), _incarcerous_ (which ends with Mr Graves bound to a chair and making a rather dirty joke that makes Credence blush) and _relashio_ — all wandless, to Credence’s dismay, but Mr Graves is very gentle and reassuring and tells him he’s done so well and should be proud.

“I’d say it’s time for a break,” Mr Graves says, glancing at his shiny silver wristwatch, which Credence presumes cost more than everything he owned back at the church. “I’m very hungry. Would you like to go for dinner?”

Credence hesitates. “If someone from the — from MACUSA sees me…”

“It’s a no-maj place,” Mr Graves reassures him. “Nobody will pay you any mind.”

So Credence gets dressed in one of the new suits Mr Graves bought for him: in a navy so dark it’s nearly black, with pearly buttons and a fitted cut that clings with a sort of comfortable closeness to the shape of his body. Nowhere to hide within the fabric. When he steps out of the bedroom, Mr Graves freezes in place.

“On second thought,” he says, a little smile playing at his lips, “you just might draw quite a bit of attention, looking like that.”

“Oh, stop,” Credence says, flustered, straightening his jacket and pushing his hair back with his hand. It’s growing out, slowly but surely, curling slightly at the ends. He’s never had it in anything but the bowl Ma forced it into, and then shaved and grown in short and straight after he escaped to Paris. He hadn’t even known it could curl. It seems to be growing inordinately fast, some wisps already grazing his eyebrows, and he secretly hopes that has something to do with all the new magic he's learning.

The restaurant is dimly lit and incredibly fancy, unlike anywhere Credence has been before. Everything is red and gold and tables are lit by candles, waitresses in dark skirts carrying trays elegantly from room to room, jazz piano playing softly beneath the low murmur of voices and clinking cutlery. The curled letters of the sign read _Tesoro,_ which Mr Graves tells quietly him means _sweetheart_ in Italian. When he says it, he squeezes Credence’s waist and Credence feels like he’s floating.

Mr Graves guides him through the room with a hand on the small of his back until they reach their reserved table, a round booth tucked away in the back of the room. Credence slides in and Mr Graves follows, keeping a safe distance between them, but nudging one foot between both of Credence’s. A waitress presents them with menus and Credence is immediately overwhelmed. The diners that the old Mr Graves — _Grindelwald —_ took him to were the kind of places that had pictures on the menus. Credence stares dejectedly at the tiny printed words, fairly certain that even if he could read, he wouldn’t be able to understand them.

A hand comes over to cover his own where it rests on the dark red tablecloth.

“I would recommend the seafood pasta,” Mr Graves says in a low voice. “Or if you don’t like seafood, there is an incredibly good pesto gnocchi. Gnocchi are doughy little potato balls, and pesto sauce is delicious. If you don’t want pasta, they also serve steak and several kinds of soup.”

Credence looks up at him, overcome with gratitude. “I’ll try the little potato balls.”

Mr Graves grins, and when the waitress returns, he orders two salads, the seafood pasta, the pesto gnocchi, and a plate of something called bruschetta.

“You’ll like it,” Mr Graves assures him. He leans over the table and Credence mirrors his position unconsciously. “What do you think of this place?”

“Honestly?” Credence glances around, voice lowering. “It’s kind of… a lot. You know?”

Mr Graves nods with a little smile. “Yes, I know. It can be overwhelming. The food is very good, though, and the staff know me well. It’s always a safe place to go. And there’s very good dessert, which I plan on making you eat every single bite of.”

The waitress comes back with their meals. Credence does like the bruschetta quite a bit. His stomach is still adjusting to all these new kinds of food — he isn’t used to salty things, or sweets, and especially not spice, since everything he ate at the church was bland and tasteless — so he eats slowly and carefully, taking a few minutes between bites to let his body process it. Mr Graves seems entirely too fascinated watching him eat, and Credence tries to conceal a smile in his napkin.

“What is it?” Mr Graves demands, fork poised at his mouth with half a shrimp speared on it.

Credence rests his chin on his hand. “You just look like you’ve never seen somebody eat before.”

Mr Graves looks almost flustered. “I’m sorry, Credence, I—”

“No, no,” Credence says quietly, smile still tugging at his lips. “It’s okay. I like it.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Well, okay.”

“Will you tell me about the unforgivable curses?”

Mr Graves looks entirely caught off guard. “What do you mean? Where did you hear about that?”

“I, um. I heard Grindelwald mention it, once. He wouldn’t tell me what it meant.”

“Well.” Mr Graves moves his food around on his plate, not meeting Credence’s eyes. “I don’t know that it’s quite time for you to learn about those.”

“Why not?” Credence says, and then catches his whining voice, his petulant tone. He clears his throat and tries again, softer this time. “Why not?”

“It’s a heavy topic, Credence. It’s not proper to simply… to simply _say_ them. The time will come where I will tell you all about them, I promise. Not now. Not here.” He smiles, and Credence can tell he’s trying to be warm, but it comes off strained. “Let’s just enjoy our dinner.”

 

——————————————

  


Graves is very much looking forward to settling into bed, preferably — and presumably — with Credence tucked into his side. His plans are foiled, however, when he finds Newt, Tina and Queenie waiting on the sidewalk outside of his home.

He raises his eyebrows at them. “It’s nearly nine o’clock.”

“We wanted to check on Credence,” Newt says apologetically. “I hope we aren’t disturbing you.”

Graves sighs, but one glance at Credence tells him how pleased the boy is to have their company. “Would you like to come in?”

They lounge together in the sitting room, sipping on tea and coffee and snacking on some scones that Queenie brought from her no-maj partner Jacob’s bakery. _I won’t go reporting you,_ he’d told her sternly, _but only because you’re helping Credence._

“How are you feeling, honey?” Queenie asks Credence, doe-eyes round and sympathetic, one hand resting delicately on the his arm. “You gave us quite a scare, you know.”

“I’m okay,” Credence says earnestly. “It hasn’t hurt since that night.” One hand goes instinctively to his chest, fingers curling over where the scar lies beneath his shirt. Queenie pats his arm.

“Picquery says she won’t allow you to come back to work,” Tina informs Graves. “Ah — the way she put it was, _if he sets foot in this building, I’ll have him dragged off by my guards._ ”

Graves rolls his eyes. “Picquery’s all talk. She needs me. Has she got Grindelwald in a cage somewhere? No. So she needs me.”

“She _has_ other aurors,” Tina says, sounding more than a little offended.

“She needs me,” Graves repeats. “But I’m not coming back yet, not until…” he glances at Credence, who’s chatting away with Queenie, not paying him any attention. He lowers his voice regardless. “Not until Credence is adequately prepared to defend himself.”

“And when will that be?” Tina shoots back. “You’ll really feel comfortable leaving him here alone, what with whatever dark magic he’s got implanted in his chest?”

“What choice do I have?” He hisses. “I can’t babysit him forever. He’s an adult, he’s learning to defend himself, and eventually he’ll be able to spend a few hours alone in a guarded house without me losing my mind worrying about him.”

In the heat of their argument, they don’t realize that the room has fallen silent. When Graves looks up, he sees Credence staring at his hands, eyes wide and blinking hard. Queenie is shifting uncomfortably in her seat and Newt is pretending that the back of the book on Graves’ coffee table is extraordinarily interesting.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, Credence, I didn’t mean—”

Credence gets up and walks quickly out of the room, down the hall and into the guest bedroom. He doesn’t slam the door. He wouldn’t do that.

The living room is painfully quiet.

“You know—” Newt starts, but Graves raises a hand.

“I don’t need to hear it. Listen, I appreciate you all checking on Credence, but I think he needs to get some rest. We did quite a bit of work on his spells today and he’s tired.”

“I’m just trying to help, Graves.” Tina sounds a little bit hurt as she gets her coat on. “It’s not time yet. You know that.”

“We don’t have the luxury of time. Every moment that Grindelwald’s out there is a failure for us. For me, for you, for Picquery, for MACUSA as a whole. And every one of those failures puts Credence in more danger.”

When Newt speaks up again it’s quiet and right next to Graves’ ear. One freckled hand touches his shoulder and the man’s eyes stay cast to the floor. “You know he won’t last with that thing inside of him, Percival. He may have outlived most obscurials, but it will kill him. It’s not a matter of if _,_ but a matter of when _._ If I were you, I’d keep him as happy and comfortable as possible while you can. MACUSA can wait.”

Graves swallows hard and doesn’t respond. Newt pats him on the shoulder like a hollow consolation and then follows Tina to the door. Queenie hesitates. 

“I just want to speak to Mr Graves for a moment alone,” she tells them, and they look confused but don’t protest. Queenie shuts the door gently and turns to Graves.

“What is it?” There’s an unsettling feeling pooling in his belly at the tone of her voice — but he’s a practiced occlumens, there’s no way on earth she’s managed to read a single thing from him. 

She crosses her arms, trying to train her face into something accusatory, but he can read her nerves clear as day. “Mr Graves, I wasn’t meaning to pry, but I saw in that boy’s mind.”

Graves rubs at his eyes and sighs. “Queenie, this is not your place.”

“He’s half your age,” she says shrilly. “Less than that, I presume! It may not be my place to meddle in your affairs, Mr Graves, but you are taking advantage of him!”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort,” Graves mutters. “Credence is an honest young man, and if you really did take a look into his mind, I’m sure you saw that he has no objections to the state of our relationship.”

Queenie purses her lips. “He’s a _boy—_ ”

“He’s an adult,” Graves says firmly.

“Listen, Mr Graves,” she says, voice brave and resolute. “I’m not gonna go tellin’ anybody that you’re hiding the obscurial in your house, but it’s another story when you’re sleepin’ with him.”

“I’m not _sleep—_ ” Graves sighs and shakes his head. “Well, sleeping, literally sleeping. He sleeps in my bed. I’m not… you know. Not that it’s any of your business,” he adds.

Queenie looks like she wants to keep arguing, but she just huffs out a breath and glowers at him. “You’d better be careful with him, Mr Graves. He’s not all too certain of anything. He’s been through quite a bit.”

“Thank you, Queenie,” he says steadily. “Have a good night, now.”

She shoots him one more attempt at a menacing look and then slips out the door. He leans back against the wall, shutting his eyes, grinding his teeth. Another bad habit he can’t shake. Pain radiates from his jaw to his skull and he resists the urge to punch a hole through the plaster.

He dreads the conversation he's about to have with Credence. If he could stop putting his foot in his mouth for one damned second, maybe they could make a bit more progress than they have thus far. He steels himself and heads down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a quick note about my view of the obscurus (note that these are all personal headcanons that are likely only true in this story, and not the actual films themselves): firstly, after macusa attempted to kill credence, obviously he survived but his obscures is smaller now. he doesn’t have as much of an ability to use it destructively, and it doesn’t just come out when he’s angry - it’s mostly become a protective thing; when he’s upset or scared it’s become his body’s escape reflex. also, i imagine it as less of a sudden explosion like what’s often shown in the movies, but more of a slow shattering — sort of like in [THIS GIF](https://66.media.tumblr.com/5701f18d30d02cc155b31342941d52f1/tumblr_ojze3vETFD1u8h1ydo2_500.gif)
> 
>  
> 
> [here's the post for this chapter on tumblr!](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/181775463950/read-chapter-8-of-little-beast-on-ao3-credence)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you missed it, i updated this past sunday as well! so check out chapter 8 if you haven't already :)

Credence is sitting up in bed when Graves comes in. His own bed, which he’d made up neatly this morning, despite not having slept in it. He  doesn’t look up when Graves opens the door. Not even when he sits down on the edge of the mattress, making his face as apologetic as he can manage. 

“I almost turned into the obscurus,” Credence says, sulking against the headboard. “But I didn’t.”

“Credence,” Graves says gently. He reaches out a hand to rest on the boy’s knee but Credence pulls his leg up to his chest, staring down at the bed, looking rather sullen. “Come on, sweetheart.”

“You don’t need to babysit me,” Credence says, his voice trembling but determined. “I’ll stay out of your way. I can find another place to go.”

Graves sighs. “Don’t be silly. You know that’s not how I feel. I — I misspoke. I’m sorry.”

“You want to go back to work and I’m a burden.” Credence finally looks up at him, and despite the anger in his voice, his eyes are wide and frightened. “I’m not going to learn fast enough and you’re going to resent me.”

“I am not,” Graves says firmly, and moves closer. This time Credence doesn’t jerk away; he lets Graves come over to him, scooting down and pulling Credence with him until they’re laying side by side, so close that Graves can smell the minty tea on Credence’s breath. “I would rather stay home and teach you magic forever, but Grindelwald needs to be stopped. I’m just trying to figure out how to go about that without putting you in danger.”

“I’m already in danger,” Credence says woefully, rubbing at the scar on his chest. “Tina said it herself. There’s something bad inside me and we can’t get rid of it.”

Graves leans forward and brushes his lips against Credence’s chin, across his cheek, up to his ear; he urges the boy onto his back and kisses slowly down his neck, across his collar bone, laying the flat of his tongue against the scar and feeling Credence tremble like a wounded animal beneath him.

“There is nothing bad inside you,” Graves whispers. “Darkness could never live in such a beautiful body.”

Credence makes a noise that’s somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. Graves feels it like a spark in his belly. 

“If anything sinister tries to crawl in here,” he continues, his voice low, lips moving down between Credence’s ribs, unbuttoning his shirt as he goes, “I will eat it out of you myself.”

He presses his lips down beneath Credence’s sternum, feeling his ribs jump with every breath as he tries to keep himself still. He undoes the last button on Credence’s shirt, lips dragging down along his navel, the trail of soft hair that dips under the waistband of his pants. He stays there for one moment longer, letting Credence feel him breathe against his skin, before he moves back up to kiss his damp and flush-pink lips. Credence stares at him with glossy eyes.

“I will always keep you safe, Credence,” Graves says, cupping the boy’s cheek with one hand, not breaking their gaze for a single second. “Tell me you understand.”

“I understand,” Credence says softly. 

“Would you like to sleep in here or would you like to come to bed with me?”

“With you,” Credence’s lashes flutter, almost shy. “If you don’t mind.”

Graves takes him to bed, making it up quickly with a wave of his hand, Credence watching in awe as the blankets smooth themselves out, pillows becoming fluffed and full again. They stand side by side in the bathroom mirror, pyjama-clad, to wash their faces and brush their teeth. Graves feels delightfully domestic. He tells Credence as much, who peppers his cheek with kisses, the pointed tip of his nose poking against Graves’ eyelid.

“Queenie doesn’t approve,” he says as they get into bed. He’s trying to sound nonchalant, but Graves can hear the trepidation in his voice. 

He sighs. “I told you there might be people who _mind._ ”

“I don’t want her to be upset with me,” Credence says, turning onto his side to watch him.

“She’s not upset with you,” Graves frowns. “Not at all. More so with me, because she believes I’m taking advantage of you. Which,” he adds, “I have no intention of doing. You know, if you want to sleep by yourself, if you ever don’t want me to touch you, or…”

Credence just beams at him. “I would like you to touch me more, actually.”

Graves laughs quietly. “I think we need to take it slow, Credence. Very slow. I would love to give you everything you want the moment you want it, but some things take time. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

The boy nods solemnly. “I understand, Mr Graves, but that doesn’t mean I want it any less.”

“You sweet little thing, you have no idea what you’re asking for,” Graves says, but his tone is affectionate and he pets through Credence’s hair, pulling him closer against his side. “Let me guide you through it. Just trust me, okay? But until then, I always want to kiss you, and I always want to go to bed with you.”

“Mm. Okay.” Credence flexes his feet and rubs them against Graves’, turning his head to smile up at him. Graves reaches down to his hand and squeezes it affectionately before turning it palm-up. Credence goes still, awaiting the next move in silent suspension, like he’s prepared to bolt. Graves moves slowly and carefully, tracing one long, wide scar spanning the heel of his hand. Credence shivers under the touch.

“Can I?”

Credence blinks at him for a moment and then nods. “Okay.”

Graves turns to face the boy more fully, taking both his hands and bringing them up closer to his face, turning them over to bare the map of scars. His breath still leaves his lungs at the sight, and he realizes in that moment that he could never possibly get used to seeing evidence of Credence’s suffering.

“I know it’s—”

“You have beautiful hands, Credence,” Graves says, cutting him off before he can insult himself or make excuses. And he isn’t lying, or trying to pacify him; despite the scars, his hands are lovely. His fingers are long and thin, pale, but his palms are slightly pink. His hands are very soft and delicate, the tiny bones that stem from his knuckles working beneath the skin with every movement. “Do they hurt?”

“All the time,” Credence whispers, and then looks almost mortified.

“Will you let me try to make you feel better?”

“With magic?”

Graves smiles. “No, with my own hands.”

Credence looks at him, a little bit curious and a little bit frightened. But he eventually nods, and Graves squeezes his arm gently and then gets up and goes into the bathroom. He could easily summon the lotion (lavender scented, a secret indulgence of his when the weather is dry and his knuckles crack like thin ice), but he wants to give Credence a moment alone — he worries he may be overwhelming him, and that’s the last thing he wants to do.

When he returns, Credence is propped up against the mountain of pillows at the headboard, legs folded delicately beneath him. He offers his palms obediently as Graves sits before him, looking almost like he’s turning himself in for punishment. Muscle memory. 

Graves uncaps the bottle and squeezes a dollop of lotion onto each of Credence’s hands. His eyes widen, like he’s never seen or felt such a thing, and Graves thinks that maybe he hasn’t. With his thumbs, he rubs it slowly and gently into Credence’s palms, watching as the boy relaxes, letting out a soft sigh as his eyelids flutter shut. He leans back into the pillows and Graves continues to massage his hands, getting in between the tendons, squeezing lightly at the pads of his fingers, working through every tiny knot of tension. He imagines himself drawing out all of Credence’s pain and taking it into his own hands — and though he knows that’s impossible, it’s nice to think about.

Credence makes a quiet, happy sound in his throat and then flushes, looking embarrassed.

“Good boy,” Graves tells him, leaning in to quickly kiss the corner of his mouth. “Such beautiful hands.”

He seems to let go of his inhibitions at the gentle praise, tipping his head back to bare his flushed throat, making soft little noises every time Graves presses down with his thumbs. He massages until Credence’s hands are loose and pliant, not a lick of tension in either of them. Graves kisses each palm and then Credence’s cheek, gently moving him to lie down and then kissing him fully, warm and open, on the lips.

Credence shifts nervously and Graves realizes, as their hips brush together, that Credence is hard.

“I’m — I’m sorry,” he stammers, trying to move back, but Graves pulls him closer with a hand around his waist.

“Sweetheart,” he sighs, settling in beside him. “I’m glad you feel better.”

“Thank you,” Credence whispers, squeezing his thighs around Graves’ leg, arms folded up between their chests. Graves’ hand moves up his back to press between the boy’s shoulder blades, keeping him close against his chest. He can feel Credence’s short little breaths against his collarbone.

Graves realizes curiously that he’s never enjoyed sleeping so close to a lover before — he doesn’t necessarily dislike cuddling, but he’s always preferred to sleep without another body clinging to him, the heat seeping through, always waking up too warm and cramped, uncomfortably sweaty with someone else’s hair in his face.

For some reason, he doesn’t mind any of that when it’s Credence’s legs squeezing too-tight around his own, when it’s Credence’s sweaty cheek pushed up against his chest, when it’s Credence’s soft, curly hair getting stuck in his mouth and tickling his eyelids.

Credence is still a little squirmy, and Graves just kisses his head and rubs his back. If he wants something, he can take it — but Credence just squeezes his legs rhythmically for a while, his hardness still apparent against Graves’ hip, and then seems to lull himself into sleep.

 

——————————————

  
  


The next afternoon, Mr Graves sits Credence down with two books: a children’s alphabet picture book and a workbook with traceable letters and small words. Credence feels his face starting to burn. He stares down at the page with a brightly coloured illustration of a round little airplane with a pointed nose, large print underneath spelling out _A is for Airplane._

“Everybody starts somewhere,” Mr Graves says encouragingly, pulling up a chair beside him. “There’s no shame. It wasn’t your choice not to learn. You’re choosing to learn now, and that’s a very brave thing.”

Credence chews at his lip and traces the letters with his fingertip. “Can you read them for me?”

“A is for airplane,” Mr Graves reads, and turns the page to reveal the same plane again, this time with a smiling cartoon apple peeking out through the window. “A is for _apple_ flying in an _airplane._ ”

Credence smirks up at him. “It’s a very good story.”

“Soon enough you’ll be reading some real novels,” Mr Graves says fondly, ruffling his hair. He points to the page, nudging Credence with his elbow.

“A is for apple flying in an airplane,” Credence says dutifully. “A. Apple. Airplane.”

“Good boy,” Mr Graves murmurs, and it makes the little hairs on Credence’s arms stand at attention. He flips another page. “B is for _bumblebee_ reading a _book._ ”

“B. Bumblebee. Book,” Credence repeats. It earns him a kiss on his temple and he continues with a little more enthusiasm. 

They get through the entire alphabet, although it takes a while because Mr Graves keeps making him repeat the letters and trace them with his finger. He’s only able to keep going if he entirely ignores how childish he feels — his breath hitches in his throat and his eyes start to burn whenever the thought nags at him. He’s twenty years old; Mr Graves should not have to sit here for hours while he reads _B is for bumblebee_ like a child.

“You didn’t go to school?” Mr Graves asks gently as he closes the book.

“No,” Credence says, and he doesn’t offer any more than that. 

Mr Graves hums, seeming to accept the response that Credence knows is more a lack-of-response. He opens the next book. Then he closes it again. “Will you tell me more?

Credence looks at him blankly. “Ma homeschooled us. She said we need only learn the word of God. There’s no need to read it if we’ve got it memorized.” He shrugs. “Besides, she always thought I was evil. Reading would give me too much of an advantage.”

He quickly detects the anger in Mr Graves’ face and on instinct he reaches out, protective, cupping his cheek. “Mr Graves, don’t worry yourself about it. Please.” He leans forward and kisses him, feeling him relax at the touch.

“I’m so sorry,” the man murmurs. “I’m so sorry for all the things she took from you.”

Credence affixes him with a little smile. “It’s okay. You’re giving them back to me now. Should I try to write?”

This part takes longer. First and foremost, Mr Graves has to teach him how to properly hold a pencil, which turns out to be a lot more difficult than it looks. He keeps dropping it, and sometimes pushes too hard and snaps the lead. Mr Graves is endlessly patient, fixing it for him with a wave of his hand, giving him one soft kiss for every letter he traces with shaky lines.

By the time he finishes the whole alphabet, his head hurts and he’s frustrated and very hungry. Mr Graves kisses him for real then, a sweet and warm reward that has Credence practically crawling out of his chair and into the man’s lap.

“So eager,” he says with a smirk, holding Credence’s waist to steady him. “I think it’s dinner time.”

They go out again, to a different place this time. It’s less intimidating and expensive, closer in style to the diners he had grown accustomed to before. There are still no pictures on the menu, but Mr Graves urges him to try and sound out the words. When that does nothing but upset Credence when he’s unable to figure any of them out, Mr Graves holds his hand across the table. “How about you point out five of the letters you remember for me.”

If any waiters or other patrons walk by, Credence thinks he may die from embarrassment. Regardless, he points to a round little ‘c’ and says: “C. C is for cat, and cookie.”

“C is for Credence.” Mr Graves smiles. “How about this one?”

Credence studies the letter for a moment. “R?” When Mr Graves nods, he continues. “R is for rainbow, and rabbit.”

They’re interrupted when a bright-eyed waitress steps up to their table, a carafe in hand. “Some coffee, gentleman?”

“Thank you,” Mr Graves nods at her. “Credence, what would you like to eat?”

Credence panics for a moment but Mr Graves quickly continues. “You know what, I brought you here. Why don’t I recommend something?”

He mouths a silent _thank you_ as Mr Graves orders him a sandwich and a bowl of soup, as well as a glass of lemonade. He’d tried soda once and the bubbles hurt his stomach, so Mr Graves assured him he wouldn’t order it again.

When she’s gone, he points out _E, S_ and _Z,_ though he forgets the words that came along with that last one.

“You did so well today, Credence,” Mr Graves says earnestly. “You’ll be reading in no time, and then you can take my old spell books from school and start learning on your own.” 

“Maybe we can work on spells after dinner?” Credence ventures.

“Sure, for a little while. But you deserve to relax, too. You’ve been working so hard.”

“I don’t mind,” Credence insists, but he knows it’s work for Mr Graves as well. There’s no time for further discussion because the waitress returns with their dinner and they eat in pleased, hungry silence until they’ve both finished their meals.

 

——————————————

  
  


It’s late when they finally go to bed, Credence getting in over an hour of practice on his spells and then finally agreeing to curl up on the couch and let Graves read to him from one of his favourite books. Credence keeps yawning and nodding off and so Graves helps him down the hall, even holding him up at the bathroom sink and brushing his teeth for him, despite Credence’s mumbled protests.

In bed, Credence faces him, hands trailing up Graves’ arms and under the sleeves of his nightshirt, soft fingertips making goosebumps rise across his flesh.

“Will you tell me about the unforgivable curses?” He asks quietly. In the suffocating dark, his eyes gleam like an animal’s.

Graves looks at him despairingly. “Why do you want to know so badly? They’re awful, ugly things, Credence. Believe me.”

“I’ve seen awful, ugly things. I was beaten, Mr Graves. My whole life. I’m not a stranger to the ugly parts of the world.”

Graves just stares at him for a moment and then sighs. “Alright, then. There are three unforgivable curses, and they’re all terribly wicked and also illegal. There’s the Imperius curse, the Cruciatus curse, and the Killing curse, although… I suppose you could have figured that might be one of them.”

“What’s Imperius?” Credence asks, and his eyes are wide with fervent curiosity. His excitement twists something nervous and fraught in Graves’ stomach. He wants to stop, to change the subject, to refuse Credence the explanation he’s vying for. But it wouldn’t be fair, especially to somebody who’s already fallen victim to the dark underbelly of the world: Credence deserves to learn, and besides, telling him _no_ is not something Graves thinks he’d be particularly good at.

“The Imperius curse puts the victim under the complete control of the caster. It’s kind of like hypnosis, except it’s an unforgiveable curse, so… I mean, it’s much more powerful. The caster could make you do anything they please. The spell is _imperio._ ”

“Oh,” Credence says breathlessly. “If you say it, can it—”

“You need a wand for the unforgiveables.” Graves smiles gently. “Some spells you do need a wand for, you know.”

“And… the other one? Cru— crucius?”

“Cruciatus,” Graves corrects. “It’s, um. It’s a torture curse. It causes such excruciating pain, unlike anything else. People have gone crazy just from being tortured with it for too long. It’s horrible, Credence, and I don’t want you to even think about it.”

“Have you ever used them?”

“Merlin, no,” Graves says, aghast. “Never.”

“Has anyone—?”

“Yes.” He swallows, clears his throat, and turns onto his back. Credence adjusts to drape one arm across his chest. “Grindelwald used _crucio_ on me several times. He never prolonged it. I suppose he wanted to keep me somewhat intact in order to continue impersonating me. I’m sure if he found me now…” Graves trails off and Credence squeezes him a little tighter.

“What about the Killing curse? How does it kill people?”

“Just does,” Graves says simply. “No cause traceable by no-majes. They just drop dead. It doesn’t hurt, or so research has concluded, but who knows. You know,” he turns his head to peer at the boy, who’s looking up him with reverent eyes. “It’s not like anybody can just toss these curses around. You have to really, truly mean it. And I think it would be an awful thing to mean that.”

“Would you mean it if you saw Grindelwald?”

Graves opens his mouth to say the resolute _no_ that he wishes he could say, but something stops him. His mind drags in awful, unwelcome images of Credence, much smaller and shakier and weaker than he is now, pressed to a wall in a dark alley, Grindelwald in Graves’ own body stroking the boy’s face and then hitting him just as happily. He swallows them down like bile in his throat.

“I suppose I would, but I truly hope I never do.”

“What’s the spell for the killing curse?”

“Avada Kedavra.”

“Avada Kedavra,” Credence repeats, tracing the shape of a capital _A_ into Graves’ chest. He looks up with an impish grin. “A is for Avada Kedavra.” 

“You stop that. I hate hearing those words in your voice.”

“Hm. Sorry.”

“Are you happy now? Now that you know, I mean.”

Credence shrugs. “Not happy, just… satisfied.”

Graves laughs quietly. “Sometimes I wish I were a legilimens like Queenie, just so I could dip into your mind at any one moment. It must be such an interesting place.”

“You know I’ll tell you whatever you’d like to know.” Credence shifts over to cross his arms on Graves’ chest, laying halfway onto his body, chin rested on folded hands. “You don’t have to read my mind. Just ask.”

“I’ll have to think of a worthy question.” Graves’ hand moves to hold Credence against his chest, cupping his jaw and rubbing a thumb behind his ear. Credence shivers and presses his lips to Graves’ collarbone.

“You touch me the same, sometimes,” Credence whispers. “The same as he did.”

Graves stills. He knows Credence isn’t talking about Grindelwald. He’s talking about the old Mr Graves, the Mr Graves that Credence fell for, the one that was so undeniably _not_ him. He feels Credence tense, and then his face presses closer against his chest, like he’s trying to hide. Graves wants to say something biting, angry, but he schools his voice into something gentle and kind.

“I’m not him, Credence.”

Credence pokes his head up to meet his eyes. His own are shiny and dark and full of something Graves can’t quite name. The moonlight paints him watercolor-blue.

“I don’t want you to be him,” Credence says. “Not anymore.”

Graves looks at him for a moment, and then pets a hand through his soft, curly hair and offers him a small smile.

“Let’s sleep now.”

“Would you…”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

Graves cups a hand on Credence’s nape and kisses him, open-mouthed and hungry, a touch of desperation in the way he slots their mouths together so completely: _stay with me._ Credence answers with a swipe of his tongue, a soft sound against his teeth: _I will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is also known as _credence is horny and graves is hopelessly in love and way too mushy_
> 
> i think i may start to update twice a week regularly, if everybody wants? unless the full week is better to give you guys more time to catch up :) these chapters do tend to run long. let me know!
> 
> anyway, yeah, that got sappy but it's fine because i love them. 
> 
> as always, thank you so much for all your comments, shares and messages - they seriously mean the world, i cry with happiness every time so thanks for that <3
> 
> [here's the post on tumblr if you want to reblog!](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/181899980735/read-chapter-9-of-little-beast-on-ao3-credence)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is... explicit

By the end of the next week, Credence can sound out most of the words in his alphabet book. He reads them slowly and phonetically and Graves has to correct his pronunciation more often than not, but he’s proven himself to be a quick learner. As for the spells, he still won’t use his wand, but Graves can't blame him for that — when he tries _lumos,_ it barely produces a spark. Without the wand, it lights the whole room. 

Secretly, Graves wonders if it’s the boy’s own stubbornness that’s working against him. He doesn’t say that out loud, though, because Credence is doing so well and he doesn’t want to hinder that — he’s perfected _accio, expelliarmus, confundo_ and _stupefy,_ which was not so much fun for Graves to practice. He’s doing well with _reducto_ and _relashio,_ and his _protego_ casts a fairly impenetrable shield. Aside from the defensive spells, Graves has had him learn _alohamora, engorgio_ and _reducio, incendio_ and _reparo,_ as well as some standard household charms that Credence can immediately pull off without a word.

“I wish there was a spell to teach me how to read,” he grumbles one day as he’s _M-_ deep in his workbook, tracing over letters that he’s close to perfecting.

“That would take all the fun out of it,” Graves tells him, not looking up from the newspaper he’s scouring. “You’re almost there.”

Credence lets out a long-suffering sigh and returns to his work.

They’ve fallen into a quiet rhythm: in the morning, Credence works on his reading and writing  while Graves pores over newspapers and reports that Tina begrudgingly sneaks out of MACUSA for him — anything he can get his hands on that relates even distantly to Grindelwald — and in the afternoon, they practice spells together. At six or seven o’clock they have dinner and then turn in as early as they can manage, sometimes staying up late if Credence wants to be read to before they sleep. 

He still likes to sit at Graves’ feet, head rested against his knee, looking impossibly comfortable on the hardwood floor. A portrait of submission. No matter how much Credence insists that it’s okay, Graves can’t help but feel that it isn’t.

“You know,” he ventures one night, closing the book he’s been reading aloud. “You don’t have to call me Mr Graves. You don’t have to ask for permission to eat when you’re hungry. And you certainly don’t have to sit on the floor.”

Credence looks at him like he’s the absolute most dense human being he’s ever encountered.

“Yes,” he says. “I know. But I want to do all those things.”

Graves sighs. “I suppose that makes the difference, then.”

He thinks about Grindelwald’s heavy hand pushing Credence down to sit at his feet. He thinks of the boy’s mother, denying him his dinner whenever she felt like it. Credence spent so many years guided by pain that often, he doesn’t seem to know what to do with simple kindness.

Graves sinks his hand into Credence’s hair, amassing a handful and then twisting — just to see.

Credence flinches, but he doesn’t hunch his shoulders and cast his face downward like Graves expects. Instead, his lip hitches in a tiny snarl, and then he composes himself and smiles up at him, blinking in all of his fawn-eyed innocence.

Graves swallows. “I didn’t mean—”

“Cruelty for cruelty’s sake,” Credence says softly. “I know it when I see it. And it doesn’t suit you.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” Graves pets through the boy’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. Credence nuzzles against his knee. 

“You don’t have to hurt me to keep me here,” he says quietly. “I would never ask that of you. I would never _want_ that from you. Actually, I’m kind of enjoying such a comfortable life. It makes it easier to control… you know. That thing.”

He looks up and gives Graves a wry smile. Graves feels his heart clenching in his chest.

Credence has done well keeping control over the obscurus, but he’s right: there have been very few triggers as of late. He hasn’t gotten angry, or upset, or been hurt. Still, Graves is proud, and tells him as much whenever he can.

As the days turn into weeks, Graves starts to get restless. Tina reports back with anything she’s heard, and the lack of news is frustrating; he starts to feel more and more helpless, like the longer he stays away from work, the more likely Grindelwald is to slip through their fingers forever. The alternative is, of course, even more terrifying; that Grindelwald may return for Credence is an option Graves isn’t at all willing to consider.

Credence is as safe as he can be, at Graves’ side all day, tucked against his body at night. He couldn’t possibly be physically closer, and yet Graves still wakes from nightmares where he gets up to find his bed empty, or where Credence wanders into the kitchen for a glass of water and never returns. Every time he jolts out of sleep, shaking and panting, Credence is there, barely half awake, holding his face and kissing him sleepily until he calms down and drifts back. 

He approaches the subject of returning to work very gently one night as they’re getting ready for bed. Credence pauses where he’s stood by the door, buttoning his nightshirt.

“Oh,” is all that he says.

At this point, Graves knows him well enough to recognize every intonation, every lilt in his voice. He can tell he isn’t happy.

“You know I feel you’re safest when I’m here with you,” he says slowly. “But I would be much more at ease if I didn't know Grindelwald was still out there, biding his time. And as always, my colleagues are completely incompetent. If Tina was bringing me back something more than vague  _possible_ sightings and half-assed plans, I might hold off for a while, but…” he trails off, shrugging helplessly.

“I understand,” Credence says. “I do.” 

He kisses Graves quickly on the cheek and then pads off to the bathroom.

Graves sits on the bed, feeling rather rejected. Part of him had hoped Credence would be happy, excited even, about his plan. He certainly feels much more human when he’s got work to do.

When Credence returns, he slips into bed wordlessly, curling up on his side. He faces the wall. Graves slides in behind him and wraps his arms around the boy’s waist, pulling him close, nosing into his hair. “ _Cre-_ dence,” he says, half sing-song, squeezing him around the belly. “Come on, baby.”

He feels the boy squirm against him at the sound of the new name. He likes the way it feels rolling off his tongue; the way it draws to mind Credence in his sweetest, softest state. 

“I just worry,” Credence says quietly. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Nothing’s gonna happen to me,” Graves says, concealing a smile against Credence’s neck. “I’m on guard, now. He won’t get me again.”

Credence rolls over to face him. “How do you know that? What if he — I don’t know, what if he ambushes you?”

“He could do it just as easily if I’m with you,” Graves reminds him gently. “Listen, I’ll go back to work and we’ll have him in a damn week, I swear. And then he’ll be locked away, maybe even dead, if we can dare to hope. We’ll never have to worry about him again.”

“I don’t want you to fight him,” Credence says, and his voice is so small, muffled against the pillow he presses his face into. “I don’t want you to be involved. Why can’t someone else do it? I know it’s selfish, because you’re the best they’ve got, but why?” He grasps a handful of Graves’ shirt and pulls him closer until they’re nose to nose, his eyes pleading. “Why can’t it be somebody else?”

It hurts more than anything to let him down, so Graves doesn’t respond. Instead, he lets their lips meet with gentle need and insistence. Credence is hesitant at first, but eventually opens his mouth and lets Graves lick into it, stroking their tongues together and feeling the boy shudder against him.

Graves rolls him onto his back and looms over him, kissing him deeper, propped up with his elbows on each side over Credence’s head.

“We’re not—” Credence gasps, “not done talking about this.”

Graves laughs quietly. “I know, sweetheart.”

 

——————————————  


 

Mr Graves has a way of kissing him that sends all his thoughts flying out the window, and he tends to take full advantage of that. By now, he’s mapped every part of Credence’s sensitive mouth, learned all the places that make him twitch and shiver and silently beg for more. He runs the very tip of his tongue along the inside of his lower lip, sending little tingles throughout his body, making him rock his hips and whimper, hands floating up to grip the back of Mr Graves’ neck.

He wants more, more, and he can’t put into words what it is that he wants, he doesn’t have the vocabulary or the experience — he just knows that he wants. He just knows that whatever Mr Graves will give him, he will take, and he will almost certainly love it. But Mr Graves is always holding back, for some unfathomable reason. Maybe he thinks Credence can’t handle it, or that he’ll change his mind, or that he'll be confused and upset. What he doesn’t know is that Credence clings to every little fragment that he’s given, every second that they’re touching; every sensation Mr Graves gives to him is a small gift that he cherishes with all preciousness.

And now Mr Graves has him pinned down like a butterfly, and he _wants_ with such a viciousness that it frightens him. Wants Mr Graves to reach into his chest and rip out his still-beating heart, wants him to crash into him like a derailed train; wants him to string him up, to crucify him for every desperate need. He wants violence and fury but Mr Graves kisses him with all the tenderness in the world, and he takes it, gasping and hungry and terrified of himself.

“Please,” he says against Mr Graves’ lips, his most private places stiff and straining for the man who’s held above him like the Sun, enveloping him, consuming him. If this is a sin, if this is meant to be shameful, then he’s already damned — it feels so good that he’ll turn his back on God for another measly second of it.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” Mr Graves murmurs, and that name, so fresh, so new, makes his whole body warm. 

“Want — want you,” he mumbles, hopelessly inarticulate. He trusts Mr Graves to understand without words.

“I’ll take care of you, Credence,” Mr Graves says. “But I still want to go slow.”

Credence huffs, squirming beneath him, twitching every time his cock rubs up against Mr Graves’ leg. He could swear he feels the man’s own hardness against him, and it makes his head light. “But we’ve been _going_ slow."

They have been, and he’s been obedient and understanding, never asking for more than he’s given. Mr Graves kisses him all the time; they kiss for hours, rocking together in bed, their fondling sometimes resulting in Credence shamefully finishing in his pants, always embarrassed despite Mr Graves’ reassurances. But now, faced with the prospect of Mr Graves leaving, even if it’s just to go back to work, the possibility of him being in danger… he can’t keep quiet. 

“Mr Graves, I want… _nnh,_ ” Credence’s voice breaks off into a whine as the man presses down insistently, his cock brushing against the length of Credence’s own through two layers of silky pyjama pants, slow and excruciatingly good. Credence can’t help but wonder how many other men Mr Graves has done this with. How many more have lain beneath him or on top of him; how many Mr Graves has been _inside._

That thought alone is enough to send Credence reeling, lifting his hips, panting out shallow breaths against Mr Graves’ ear as he dips down to kiss and suck at Credence’s neck, finding the most sensitive spots: namely, the dip of his collarbone and the patch of skin behind his earlobe.

“I’m— I’m gonna—” Credence grabs at Mr Graves’ hips and manages to roll out from under him, resting on his back and breathing hard, willing himself to cool down. Mr Graves turns onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. He watches Credence with a look that's half amused and half lustful.

“Okay there, darling?”

“Mean,” Credence gasps. “You know what you do to me.”

“I’d like to keep doing it,” Mr Graves says, kissing Credence’s outstretched wrist. 

“I want more.”

“Demanding, aren’t you.”

“No. Just want you.”

“You have me, sweetheart.” Mr Graves urges Credence over to straddle him, and Credence pushes his fists weakly against the man’s chest, looking down at him, hair curling into his eyes and impeding his vision. 

“You know what I mean.”

Mr Graves smiles but gently says, “You don’t know what you’re asking for.” When Credence goes to protest, he reaches out and lets his hands rest on the boy’s legs, thumbs rubbing circles into his soft inner thighs, dangerously close to where Credence is damp and hard and desperate for him. “I want to make you come.”

“O-okay,” Credence says weakly, the shameless declaration making his head spin. He lets himself be shifted as Mr Graves sits back against the headboard, dense with pillows, pulling Credence into his lap so that his back rests against the man’s strong chest.

“May I take your shirt off?” He murmurs against Credence’s ear.

Credence’s mind leaps to the myriad of scars, wrapped like train tracks across his back. “Please don’t.”

Mr Graves hesitates but doesn’t argue. “How about your pants?”

His legs are better; not as many scars there. 

“Okay,” he says, very quietly. Mr Graves’ hands are kind as he pushes Credence’s waistband down, first removing his pyjama pants and then reaching for his underwear.

“Wait,” Credence says, the word barely a hiss of breath between his teeth. “Don’t, not yet. Please.”

Mr Graves pauses. “What’s the matter, darling?”

 

——————————————  


 

Graves can feel Credence absolutely trembling against him now. His legs are bare, long and pale and dusted with very fine hair. The skin so milky and young that Graves almost feels sinful himself, opening Credence like a beautiful gift, spreading him out in his arms.

He'd thought this would be the most comfortable position for the boy: enveloped in Graves’ arms, safe and contained, and not having to face him directly. Held with steady reassurance. But he’s still nervous, and Graves has to continually remind himself that this is his first time for everything.

“It’s… if it doesn’t…” Credence sucks in a breath and sounds almost like he’s going to cry. “If it isn’t very nice looking…”

Graves smiles to himself and kisses the boy’s cheek. “I’m sure it’s beautiful like the rest of you. Actually, I can promise you that it is, because there’s no way on earth you could show me a single part of you that I wouldn’t find gorgeous.”

He hopes Credence doesn’t think he’s blowing smoke; he knows he's being rather sickeningly romantic and sappy at the moment. But Credence sighs, relaxing slightly in his arms. “Okay. You can take them off.”

Graves does, very slowly and very carefully. Credence’s erection springs out and Credence turns his face into his shoulder as if to hide away. His cock is slightly smaller than Graves’ own, long and thin like the rest of him. The skin is smooth and pink, curving up towards his belly. There’s precome beading at the tip, and the length pulses slightly with the intensity of Credence’s arousal.

“Beautiful,” Graves breathes, and he’s nothing if not honest. “So beautiful.”

“Really?” Credence says shyly.

“Really,” Graves confirms. “Merlin, Credence, you… you have no idea, the things I would like to do to you.”

“You can,” Credence insists. “You can do anything, anything you’d like…”

“Shh.” Graves drags his mouth across Credence's jaw, trailing the very tips of two fingers along the underside of his cock. “Just let me make you feel good tonight.”

Credence goes quiet, acquiescent, tipping his head back onto Graves’ shoulder as the man continues to tease up his length. Credence's hips twitch uncontrollably. Graves is being cruelly gentle, he knows it, and he makes the guilty realization that Credence won't dare protest, won't dare take any more than what he's given. 

He makes a circle of his thumb and forefinger, sliding it along Credence’s cock, enough to draw a breathy whine from his throat but too loose to provide any sort of relief. As he nears the tip, he gently pulls the foreskin back and teases a thumb over the sensitive head; Credence’s hips jump and he gasps, chin tipping down toward his chest, staring in awe as Graves slowly and steadily circles the tip, growing wetter and more red by the second. Graves can see the muscles of Credence’s belly working beneath his nightshirt, his whole body run through with waves of need, of pleasure, and all he wants to do is give this to Credence forever.

“Does that feel good?” He murmurs against his ear. Credence nods wordlessly, jaw clenching as Graves experimentally presses his thumbnail against the slit, causing his cock to let out a generous gush of precome.

“O-oh, I’m sorry,” Credence whimpers.

“Shh, no, baby. You’re being so good. Such a good boy. My good boy.”

His hand slides down to grip Credence properly, firm and slick-palmed, and he’s only dragged upwards once before Credence is spilling over his hand, lurching forward, body shaking through spasms while one strangled moan is ripped from his throat. Graves keeps stroking him as his body rides the aftershocks, milking every last drop from the boy, _his_ boy, and he has the sudden, half-delirious thought that the fluid itself is sacred, that Credence’s orgasms are precious, beautiful things and must be cherished as such.

And, of course, he will. 

Credence goes limp in his arms, face turned to nuzzle against his jaw, no shame in his lax and pliant body — simply satisfaction, simply the low buzz of pleasure making him sleepy and soft. After a moment, he turns himself around, flopping uselessly on Graves’ chest. 

“Lemme touch you.”

“You don’t have to do anything, precious boy. I’m content just to lay here with you.”

“Very romantic, but I’d like to touch you.” Credence smirks, and then his voice lifts into a tone of slightly mocked politeness. “If you don’t mind, of course, Mr Graves.”

Graves groans and stretches his arms out. He’s still hard, of course he is — he can’t help his body reacting to the sweet and squirmy little thing coming apart on top of him. The base part of his brain is screaming _yes_ but the rational part is telling him _no, give him time._ There are approximately one hundred reasons why it’s a bad idea to take this night any further than it’s already gone, and every single one of those reasons is all but carved into the inside of Graves’ skull. He’s rationalized the whole thing to death and is left with two opposing forces: a vicious moral ruler and an endless reservoir of wanting. He’s run through every route in his mind, pondered every outcome that’s humanly possible until he seems to have it all down to mathematics, to a solid set of pros and cons, risks and rewards.

Credence, however, is anything but predictable. He moves himself down to sit sweetly on Graves’ hips, toying with the tie on his pyjama pants. “Will you tell me what to do?”

“Um—” Graves falters, feeling suddenly out of his depths. “You can just do what I did, if you’d like…”

“I want to have you in my mouth, Mr Graves.”

_Oh._ Oh, that’s— 

_“_ Are you sure?”

Credence nods fervently. “Is that okay?”

Graves swallows, wondering how on earth Credence has come to know about such things. “More than okay, darling.”

With delicate fingers, Credence opens the tie of Graves’ waistband and works the pants down over his ass, pushing them past his knees for Graves to kick off. His eyes widen at the sight of the bulge in Graves’ underpants, a damp patch the size of a quarter where the tip pulses out, the outline visible through thin fabric. Nervously, he rubs a hand over the length, watching with fascination as it jumps beneath his touch; Graves groans and spreads his legs a little wider. 

Credence works Graves’ underpants down until his cock is freed. He gapes at it openly, and Graves has to remind himself not to be offended by the boy’s silence. He’s likely never seen a man’s naked body aside from his own.

“Sweetheart, if you don’t—”

“I want to,” Credence says, and it’s nearly a whisper. “What do I…”

“Here,” Graves says, cupping his jaw affectionately. “We’ll go slow.”

He presses two fingers to Credence’s lips. Credence puts his tongue out, almost instinctively, and starts licking at them like a kitten, wide feline eyes gazing up at Graves, unblinking. Graves’ breath rattles in his chest as he takes himself in hand. Credence parts his lips, accepting two of Graves’ fingers into his mouth, closing his eyes and sinking down until his plush lips are settled against Graves’ knuckles. Graves curses under his breath, stroking himself slowly — he’s already painfully hard, and only grows more so as he watches Credence suckle on his fingers with such impeccable focus, tongue curling and caressing the sensitive pads.

His strokes grow tighter and faster as Credence engulfs his fingers more eagerly, spit dribbling from his chin, shameless and needy and so, so beautiful. Graves makes a strangled sound, squeezing a little at the base of his cock to force himself to hold back.

Credence blinks up at him as if to say: _now?_

Graves reluctantly slides his fingers from the boy’s mouth, leaving Credence panting and spit-shiny, cheeks flushed pink with arousal. Graves pets through his hair, damp fingers clinging stickily to strands of dark curls, and guides his head closer to where his cock is curled up by his belly.

“Try licking, first, if you’d like.” Graves tries to sound encouraging, and finds himself taking on the same tone he uses when urging Credence to sound out new words. “You can put just the tip in your mouth. Make sure to cover your teeth with your lips.”

Credence ducks down, tongue poking out to lick experimentally at the underside. It feels incredible, and Graves is certain that’s partially due to the sight laid out before him: Credence, pale and glowing, his sharp collarbone visible where his shirt rides down, his hair dishevelled and falling into his eyes, little pink tongue worshipping around the head of Graves’ cock. 

Credence opens his mouth wider and puts it around the very tip, lips curled carefully over his teeth, suckling softly. That draws both a string of expletives and a spurt of precum from the man, causing Credence to jump a little, pulling off.

“Sorry, baby,” Graves pants.

Credence smiles serenely. “Didn’t you tell me not to apologize for just that very thing?”

“Maybe I did,” Graves laughs, disbelieving. “Just — in your mouth, you know…”

“Don’t mind it,” Credence murmurs. “I was just surprised, that’s all.”

He leans back in and takes more of Graves’ cock into his mouth, the whole head this time, rolling his tongue around the sensitive skin, and Graves takes the Lord’s name in vain, covering his face with both hands to stop from grabbing onto the boy’s head. Credence’s mouth is so wet and warm and what he lacks in experience he makes up for in enthusiasm, taking Graves in deeper until he gags and has to pull back slightly. The convulsion of his throat makes Graves moan out loud and Credence pulls off, thumb absently stroking the head, looking at him curiously.

“Does that feel good?”

“Wha—?”

“When I choked. Did it feel good?”

“Don’t choke yourself, sweetheart, you—”

But Credence is diving back in, stubborn as always, taking Graves into his throat until he gags, letting himself choke around his cock before pulling back and then repeating once he catches his breath. The rhythm is unbearable, and Graves manages to open his eyes only to see Credence staring up at him from beneath dark brows, cheeks hollow, plush pink lips damp with spit, cheeks reddened with effort. His eyes search Graves’ face as though to gauge how he’s doing. One hand is tucked beneath his body: stroking himself off, Graves realizes.

“ _Fuck,_ ” He gasps, and he reaches one hand down into Credence’s hair, not to push, just to hold. He wishes he had the stamina he once did, but it’s been a while and Credence is just _too much._ “Baby, I’m gonna— you can pull off, I—”

But Credence doesn’t, taking him in even deeper, figuring out how to swallow around him and that does it — Graves comes hard and Credence swallows and swallows, not faltering for a single second, hands holding Graves’ thighs down until his hips stop jerking. Credence swallows lazily around him one last time and then pulls off, crawling halfway up his body and then flopping down on his chest once more, cheek resting on his folded arms, smiling up at him sleepily.

“Did you like it?”

His voice is rough and scratchy and Graves hates how much that turns him on — or, more specifically, the reason _why_ it does.

“You know, I’m having a hard time believing you’ve never done that before.”

Credence frowns. “I’ve never—”

“Joking,” Graves says, still breathless and somewhat shocked. “I liked it a lot, Credence. You know, you don’t have to swallow.”

Credence shrugs. “I wanted to try it. I don’t mind.”

It's too much to bear. Graves circles his arms over Credence's back, pressing his palms to the sweat-damp skin. “I can’t help feeling like I’ve corrupted you.”

“I feel much better for it, if that helps,” Credence murmurs, already halfway to sleep, still naked from the waist down but not seeming to mind at all. As much as the thought of staying this way is enticing, Graves knows that he’ll regret it when he wakes up later to Credence (who is very much an adult, and still a weight despite his slenderness) literally sprawled on top of him. So he turns them both over, pulling Credence back against his chest and holding him around the belly. He’s far too delighted for his own good by the way he can feel it expand and shrink with every breath Credence takes.

“I suppose I’ll have to live with it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eeeee how are we already on chapter 10?? posting twice a week is fun but also kinda making me sad because i don't want this fic to be over haha.
> 
> as much as i love writing hot explicit smut, i love even more writing their cute semi-awkward lil moments during the smut (like when they both apologize for precum)
> 
> i'm way too invested in these sweet men
> 
>  
> 
> [here's the tumblr post for this chapter! <3](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/181970696045/read-chapter-10-of-little-beast-on-ao3-credence)


	11. Chapter 11

“You’re going to visit Queenie today,” Graves announces, already dressed in a suit and jacket when Credence slinks into the sun soaked kitchen, bleary-eyed and sleep-tousled, hiding a yawn in his hand.

“Why?” Credence blinks at him, toes curling against the cold kitchen floor. “What time is it?”

“Nearly seven. I’d offer breakfast but I’m sure she’s already made something.”

“I’m going _now_?” Credence sounds absolutely perplexed. Graves sighs impatiently, rushing around the room in search of his wand. The downside to being well-practiced in wandless magic is that he’s always misplacing the damned thing.

“Yes, now. Would you like to get dressed?”

Credence leans back against the counter, seemingly nonplussed by Graves’ urgency. “What’s going on?”

“I’m going in to work today. You’re going to spend the day with Queenie and I’ll collect you afterwards.”

“Hey, I didn’t agree to this,” Credence says, suddenly sounding far more awake than he did a moment ago. It’s been two weeks since their initial discussion on the matter, and Graves made the executive decision not to bring it up again, seeing as the topic served only to upset the boy. He’d thought a last-minute explanation might do the trick, but… maybe not.

“I know, and I’m sorry.” Graves cups his cheeks and kisses his forehead. “But this is very important, and we need to get going.”

“This isn’t fair!” Credence says angrily. “I don't even know where you’re going or what you’re doing. Are you going to Nurmengard? Is this some kind of mission they called you in for?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Graves promises.

“Mr Graves,” the boy says, his voice softening. “Please don’t lie to me.”

“Not lying,” Graves insists, and he really isn’t. “I’m going in to meet with President Picquery and inform her that I’d like to be put back on the defensive team. If all goes well, I’ll be given access to the entire investigation, so I’ll likely be there awhile to look over everything they’ve got.” He finds his wand next to the fruit basket and tucks it into his sleeve. “If not, I’ll be home before lunch.”

He gives Credence a smile and a rather patronizing pat on the head, nudging him toward the hall. “Go get dressed. Really, sweetheart, we’ve got to go.”

“Could have told me at any point before now,” Credence grumbles, but goes down the hall all the same. “Last night, you know. Maybe a few days in advance, give me _some_ kind of notice.” His voice trails off as he goes into the bedroom, but Graves can still hear him muttering to himself faintly while he gets dressed.

He apparates them to Queenie’s. She’s already up and dressed, with an absolutely ludicrous amount of food for only two people laid out in the kitchen. She must notice just as keenly as Graves does the dark hollows of Credence’s cheeks, the winter-branch frailty of his wrists. 

“Oh, hello, you!” She says brightly at the sight of him. “Looking forward to our day together?”

“I only wish I’d known sooner,” he says, with a tight smile to Graves, who puts a hand on his shoulder rather awkwardly and bids them both goodbye, disapparating and leaving the room in silence.

 

——————————————  
  


 

“Well, he’s in a hurry,” Queenie huffs. “Why don’t you come sit down, honey. I’ve got plenty of breakfast for us. What do you like?”

“Any of that looks great,” Credence says, taking in the array of pancakes, waffles, eggs and bacon, bowls of chopped fruit and fresh muffins on the countertop. “You really didn’t have to.”

“Oh, it’s no matter,” Queenie winks, sending far too many pancakes to stack themselves on a plate, dousing them in strawberries and maple syrup with a flick of her wand. “I love to cook.”

They sit together at her dining room table to eat. Having a conversation with Queenie is much easier than with anybody else, because he barely has to speak at all — she just reads the words straight out of his head. Unfortunately, that does mean she can see everything, and Credence has never been good at concealing his thoughts. Rather, when he knows he’s meant to _not_ be thinking of something, he often finds it to be the only thing he _can_ think of.

Queenie goes a bit pink in the cheeks and dabs at her lips with a napkin. “Things with Mr Graves are going well, then?”

He can tell she’s trying to sound encouraging, but he doesn’t miss the discomfort in her tone.

“I’m sorry,” he says awkwardly, although he wants to ask her to stop reading her mind, because really, it’s not his fault for thinking.

“No, don’t be sorry, honey.” She straightens herself out and affixes him with a positively radiant smile. “I’m glad you’re so happy. You deserve to be. Just want to make sure you’re being taken care of proper, that’s all.”

“Yes,” Credence says breathlessly, his mind screaming _don’t think about Mr Graves’ cock don’t think about Mr Graves’ cock._ Queenie’s mouth drops open and he winces. “I’m—”

To his surprise, she bursts into giggles, waving a hand at him. “Credence, darling, aren’t you cute. Don’t worry, sweetheart, you think I haven’t heard worse than that? You’ve got no idea what runs through the heads of some men out there, I’ll tell you.” She lowers her voice, leaning over the table. “You’re tame as a kitten, ‘pared to them.”

She sits back, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Mr Graves is rather handsome, isn’t he?”

And oh, he wishes she hadn’t said that, because now all he can think of is Mr Graves in his underclothes, propped on strong arms above him, Mr Graves pulling him into his lap and touching him, Mr Graves kissing him, kissing him, kissing him…

“Queenie,” he says weakly. “Can you maybe… can you maybe tune out for a moment?”

She winks again and then busies herself in the kitchen, setting the dishes to wash themselves with a wave of her wand. “Mr Graves told me I’m to help you practice your household spells,” she calls over her shoulder. “You’ve been learning well, he said.”

Credence nods proudly. “I can do twenty-two spells now. I can’t use my wand, but I can still do them.”

“Well,” she says, patting her hands dry against the towel by the sink. “How about you show me the ones you know?”

They practice for nearly an hour. Queenie is very patient, even when he breaks several vases and then does a terrible job repairing them. She casts a quick _reparo_ herself and they move on. When they’ve finished, she fixes them both a glass of lemonade and they settle into the living room, where she’s eager to show him the latest wizarding gossip magazine she’s bought.

She hands it over, tapping the cover until it flips open to a page with a few moving photographs paired with solid, intimidating blocks of text. He stares at it for a moment, panicking, because suddenly he can’t remember any of his letters and none of it makes sense —

A hand reaches out and touches his arm.

“Oh, honey,” Queenie says softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Mr Graves is teaching me,” he says quickly. “I can do all my letters. Some words, too.”

His face burns when he realizes how childish he sounds, but Queenie’s smile is genuine.

“That’s lovely, Credence. Here, let me read it for you…”

She launches into a bit about some well known wizarding family from Europe and their latest scandal. Credence sinks back into the couch, sipping at his drink, getting lost in the sound of her voice. He finds himself leaning into her, and she welcomes him with an arm around his shoulders, hand coming up to stroke his hair affectionately. The little display of motherly affection makes his eyes burn — something he never had but always longed for; something he went across the ocean in search of, some stupid, naive part of himself believing that he’d find his real mother and maybe she would hold him this way. Maybe she would want to touch him.

Because for most of his life, nobody has treated him like he’s worthy of being touched. People would dodge him on the streets while he held out his leaflets, keeping their distance like he was a leper, like he was something repulsive taking up space in their clean and shiny world. 

It’s a little bit overwhelming now, having people not only not shrink away from him, but actually _want_ to touch him. Mr Graves, of course, who for some reason seems to see him as something beautiful, something he wants to know and feel and understand. Even Newt, who doesn’t hesitate to press his fingers to Credence’s scar or lay a hand on his arm. And then Queenie: full of maternal energy though she has no children of her own, who smells like flowery perfume and has the softest skin Credence has ever felt.

He can hear Queenie’s smile in her voice as she continues reading, gently pressing Credence’s head down to rest on her shoulder.

 

——————————————

 

“Director Graves,” Picquery says, voice dry and not at all welcoming. “To what do I owe this blatant defiance of my orders?”

“Oh, cut the dramatics, Seraphina,” he sighs. “You knew I would show up someday.”

“I told you, not until—”

“Until what?” He demands. “Until Grindelwald slips through your hands yet again? It’s not happening, not on my watch. You know I’m your best bet.”

He leans back in the chair he’s appropriated, watching her watch him, stone-faced. She does impenetrable well, he has to give her that.

She snaps out of it just as quickly.

“Fine,” she says, shuffling some papers on her desk into a neat stack. “You may return to your previous position, under the condition that you’re guarded at all times by somebody of my choice.”

Graves can already feel the familiar headache of MACUSA politics working its way in through his ear canal. “Fine. So be it. Please choose somebody who won’t irritate me.”

“It takes a village,” Picquery mutters. She stands, and he follows. “I presume you’d like to see what we’ve got.”

She leads him down to the old, familiar wing, the place he’d spent many full days and full nights poring over any leads or information the congress had managed to gather. It looks the same as it always had, and that’s both comforting and disconcerting all at once.

“Four sightings,” she tells him, spreading the photographs and documents on the table in front of them. “A small town in Austria, Sweden, Paris and Denmark. Seems he’s all over Europe with no known connection. We’re assuming he’s holding rallies, but it’s strange we’ve heard no word of them. They could be smaller, more discreet, after the way the last one went.”

“Sweden failed,” Graves mutters. “Paris, I doubt he’ll be back there after the last one. Denmark… maybe. Austria’s our best bet. We know he’s based there.”

“Nurmengard,” Picquery says, and Graves keeps his face straight, coolly reminding himself to let on nothing about his trip to the place. “It’s heavily guarded and we have no way of knowing if he’s there or not. It’s too risky right now, and out of our jurisdiction regardless. The best we can do is notify the government there and leave it to them.”

“No, no,” Graves says impatiently. “Doesn’t matter where he is. We’ll get him. Don’t leave it in anybody else’s hands, you know better than that.”

“I can’t go rogue, Percival,” she says tersely. “I’m the President, in case you've forgotten. It’s not on the table for me.”

Graves hums. “Sounds like you’re offering me an opportunity.”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort,” she murmurs. From underneath one of the faded documents she pulls out another photograph, this one of Credence. It’s the same photo he’d seen before, with his badly chopped hair and his miserable face. He wants to laugh at himself when he thinks of how unsightly he’d found the boy, but he schools his expression into one of indifference.

“The obscurial?”

“As far as we know, he’s in Grindelwald’s possession.”

The way she says it makes his hands clench against the table. “What does he have to do with this?”

She blinks at him. “Well, he’s a direct link. A weak one, at that.”

Graves is about to say something he’ll regret when the door swings open. A round-eyed assistant stands breathless in the doorway.

“Mr Graves, sir?” He squeaks. “There’s a phone call for you. Queenie Goldstein. She says it’s urgent.”

Within seconds he’s out the front door and apparating to Queenie’s apartment.

She’s still clutching the phone to her ear when he materializes in her living room. It’s like walking into a nightmare — the _sound_. More specifically, the sound of Credence, keeled over on the living room floor, screaming in pain.

“Credence!” He drops to his knees and their eyes meet but Credence’s gaze is flat and empty, his mouth open wide in an endless wail, both hands clutching at his chest. 

“What happened?” He demands. Queenie is red and flustered, running from room to room.

“I don’t know!” She cries, searching frantically through the cabinet and drawers, sending objects careening across the room. “He was fine, and then — and then he just _dropped,_ oh, Mr Graves, I’m so sorry, Newt left some of those potions here… _accio!_ ” She shrieks, pointing her wand wildly around the room. “ _Accio potion! Accio!”_

Graves turns back to Credence, who’s unresponsive, barely breathing, his entire body clenched, petrified, turning to stone. Graves can see the outline of the tendons in his neck, the tight muscles of his arms. He tears open the front of Credence’s shirt, the top few buttons popping off. Credence’s hands stay tightly clasped against his chest.

“Credence, I need you to let go, okay? I need to see it.”

He manages to pry Credence’s hands off of the scar and nearly loses his balance at the sight he’s left with.

Where the scar had burned a bright red before, it’s now black.

“Queenie, the potion?” He shouts, one hand frantically rubbing Credence’s back, trying to calm him. Nothing seems to ease the pain. 

“I’ve — oh, _here_ , I’ve got it!” Queenie falls to her knees beside them, handing over a little vial which Graves snatches hastily at the sight of how badly her hands are shaking. The last thing they need is for the stuff to spill all over her living room floor. “Newt — Newt wasn’t sure of it, he said it might just help the pain, but he didn’t—”

But Graves isn’t even listening, too focused on tipping Credence’s head back as gently as he can, urging the boy’s lips apart and pouring the green liquid into his mouth. Credence gurgles a little and Graves claps a hand over his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, resting his forehead against Credence’s, which is sweaty and warm with fever. “I’m so sorry, please, just swallow it. Please, sweetheart, it might make you feel better.”

He waits until he sees Credence’s throat rise and fall, until he knows the potion’s in him, and then he releases his mouth. Credence lets out another low wail, curling into himself even further until he’s folded in half on the floor, hands over his chest, tears forming a small river on the hardwood floor.

“It’s not working,” Graves says distantly, and his head is spinning, and no, _no,_ he needs to keep himself alert, needs to wake the fuck up and not black out right now. Credence needs him. He turns to Queenie, panicked. “Can you read him? Can you hear anything?”

“It’s just — it’s just _screaming,_ ” she says shakily. “It’s all just screaming. It’s just pain, Mr Graves. I don’t know what to do.”

He wants to rip his hair out. He wants to give Credence mouth to mouth and suck this curse right out of him and into himself. He wants to take the pain and feel it in his own body, for all of eternity if that’s what it takes. He’d promised Credence, sworn to him. _If anything sinister tries to crawl it’s way in here, I’ll eat it out of you myself._

“Credence,” he says desperately. “Credence, baby, I need you to change over, okay? I need you to let the obscurus out. I know you don’t want to, and I know that it hurts, but it’ll hurt less than this. Please, sweetheart, _please_ , Credence. That’s the only way.”

He doesn’t know this, of course, but he has to believe it. The alternative is too awful to bear.

Credence’s eyes are vacant and inhuman. His body convulses suddenly, throat bobbing, and he doesn’t manage to turn onto his side before throwing up all over himself. It’s ink black, like liquid tar. The way it drips from his chin makes Graves want to die.

“Credence!” He repeats, louder this time, more forceful, grabbing Credence’s face in his hands, yanking his jaw up, forcing him to meet his eyes. His hands stain grey with the inky substance still dribbling out of Credence’s mouth.“I need you to turn. I need you to do it. Please, Credence, for me. My boy. My good boy.”

Credence’s scream breaks off into a strangled gasp and his eyes widen and roll back and then they’re white, misty white, and Graves falls back and watches as all of Credence’s body breaks off into fragments, into smoke, swirling together in the center of the room and then shooting up to the ceiling, hovering, circling. Graves watches, breathing hard, feeling Queenie’s eyes travelling back and forth between him and the little storm cloud above them.

“Very good, Credence,” he whispers. “Just wait. Just wait a moment and then you can come back down.”

The room is very still. Neither he nor Queenie move an inch. Credence is static, a dark cobweb, a shadow on the pastel pink ceiling. Graves counts in his head up to two hundred.

“Okay, Credence,” he says quietly. “Can you come down now?”

Slowly, very slowly, the smoke furls downward and shapes into a figure, a silhouette, that finally materializes into Credence. He’s unsteady on his feet and quickly lowers himself to sit on the ground, a few feet away from where Graves is half-sprawled.

His eyes are wide, staring at the floor, lips a tight, straight line.

The scar on his chest is back to its regular silver-pink, shining under the bright ceiling lights. His chin is still stained from whatever dark magic just made its best attempt to crawl out of his throat.

Queenie stands back, watching, chest rising with heavy breaths. Graves approaches Credence slowly, keeping himself low, not making any sudden or frightening movements. Credence stays very still, barely even registering his presence.

“Credence,” Graves says in a low voice. “Does it still hurt?”

There’s a moment of nothing, and then Credence shakes his head.

“Okay,” Graves breathes. “Good. What do you feel?”

“Nothing,” Credence whimpers, and his arms come up to wrap around himself protectively, watery eyes still fixed on the floor before him. “I can’t feel anything.”

Graves doesn’t want to push him to explain, so he moves closer until he can reach out and run one hand down Credence’s arm, across his shoulder, up along his cheek.

“Do you feel this?”

Credence shakes his head.

Graves glances back at Queenie, whose eyes are moon-wide with fright. “Call Tina and Newt. Do you have a bed he can rest in?”

She shows them to a room down the hall and offers to get Credence settled herself, but Graves refuses to leave his side. She goes out into the sitting room to call Tina and Graves sits at the edge of the bed, petting Credence’s hair, thumb rubbing across one sharp cheekbone. Credence is curled up under a frilly, floral-printed quilt, and Graves wants nothing more than to slip under the covers with him, to hold him against his chest, to take all their clothes off — not to be lewd but simply to be closer.

But Queenie is in the other room, and soon Tina and Newt will be too, so he keeps a safe distance.

“You’re okay, baby. It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs. Nonsensical. Helpless. “Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

But it already did. He knows that. 

And it will keep hurting him, at least until Graves can figure out how to make it stop.

 

——————————————

 

Credence can’t feel the blanket against this body. He can’t feel Mr Graves’ hand on his cheek, or his fingers in his hair. Everything is numb, vague pinpricks breaking through every so often like a faulty radio signal. He’s surprised he can move at all.

He can sense Mr Graves' feverish worry and he hates it. He hates being the reason for the lines on his face, the fearful look in his eyes. Mr Graves is so strong, so strong and brave, and it scares Credence to see him falter like this. He knows it’s his fault.

The door opens and Newt pokes his head in, looking grim. “Can I—?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Mr Graves says, sounding very relieved. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.”

He gets up and Credence’s eyes widen in quiet panic, but Mr Graves squeezes his hand in comfort before he steps back, letting Newt take his place.

“Is it okay if I sit here, Credence?” Newt asks, careful not to touch him yet. Credence nods jerkily and Newt smiles, head tilted, reaching out to trace a hand across his shoulder and down to where the scar lies dead center in his chest. “Looks like it’s gone back to normal.”

“It was black,” Mr Graves says. “It turned black. It’s never done that before. And he — he vomited, and that was black, too. Thin, like paint.”

“Yes,” Newt says. “That’s very strange. Although, I think expelling some of the dark magic may not be entirely bad. Credence’s body is fighting back, the same way it would fight off a virus.”

He presses two fingers rhythmically around the scar and Credence struggles to feel it, to feel _anything._

“He said he’s numb,” Mr Graves offers. “He can’t feel anything. Credence?”

Credence nods, eyes fixed on a point on Newt’s shoulder, watching how the muscles work beneath his skin as he moves his hand along Credence’s chest. They sit in silence for a moment, Newt studying him closely, before he stands up and reaches for his case. “I might have something for that.”

The potion is cold and blue and comes from a tiny corked bottle that Newt holds to his lips. He swallows it down obediently, closing his eyes, and then lays back down against the pillows. He stretches one hand out, flexing his fingers as the feeling starts to return.

“Oh,” he says faintly.

“Is it working?” Mr Graves asks, peering over Newt’s shoulder.

Credence arches his back as feeling starts to flow back into his body bit by bit, the sensation almost overwhelming at first, every muscle tensing and then relaxing, skin tingling and almost burning, but not in an unpleasant way. He lets out a soft, shuddery sound and flushes with embarrassment, but Newt smiles encouragingly.

“There we go,” he says gently, stroking Credence’s forehead. “We’ve got you.”

Credence feels vaguely like he’s one of Newt’s magical little animals, the ones he keeps in his case and cares for so lovingly. It’s a nice feeling; no expectation but to simply _be._ He watches Mr Graves shifting on his feet, anxious to come over and be with him. Newt steps back.

Mr Graves is beside him in a split second, hands cupping his face, leaning in like he wants to kiss him but won’t, refraining if only for Newt’s sake.

“My good boy,” he says, in a voice so low that only Credence can hear. Credence closes his eyes, feeling a tear drip from his eyelashes, trailing down over his cheek. Mr Graves wipes it with the back of his hand. “I’m going to fix this. I’m going to make it better.”

 

——————————————  
  
  
  


They let Credence sleep in Queenie’s guest room for a while, Graves only agreeing to leave his bedside when he’s certain the boy has drifted off. And then they convene in the sitting room, a rather grim and solemn scene. Queenie serves hot cocoa with tears in her eyes.

“You all heard what Errapel said,” Graves sighs. “This isn’t just going to go away. This was worse than before. He can’t just keep going through that, and the numbness after…”

“Maybe if we just—”

“No,” Graves cuts Tina off, eyes flashing. “There’s only one solution and you know very well what it is.”

“You can’t go up against Grindelwald alone.”

“I’m back on as Director. I spoke to Picquery today.”

“And she _approved_ that? After he kept you locked in a cellar for half a year?”

“She knows I’m the only one capable of finding him,” he hisses, and she looks stricken. He puts his face in his hands. “I’m sorry. You’re a good auror, Tina. But I’ve been focused on this case for so long, and that didn’t go away just because he got me. That probably gave me a better chance, honestly.”

“Then we’ll talk MACUSA into planning something,” Tina urges. “You can’t go after him alone. We’ll work up a proposal for Picquery and she’ll round up all her best aurors and we’ll go after him together.”

“We don’t have _time,_ ” Graves says impatiently. “Do you see what it’s doing to him? You weren’t here when it happened, Tina, but I’m sure Queenie can back me up on this.”

“Awful,” Queenie says faintly. “It was awful.”

“Before we do any of this, you need to tell Picquery about Credence.”

Graves’ eyes shoot up to glare at Tina. “You think she’s gonna—”

“I don’t want it any more than you do!” Tina says, voice rising. “You _know_ that, Graves, and I’m sorry but don’t pretend for a single second that you’re the only person here who cares about Credence. I’m the one who begged you to go find him in the first place. Please, _please_ don’t try to take this on alone.”

Graves finds himself rendered rather speechless, and sinks back into his chair. 

“I agree with Tina,” Newt says quietly, looking up at Graves from under his bright flop of hair. “I’m sorry, Percival. You’ll have to tell the President.”

He rubs his eyes hard until his vision blooms. He thinks of Credence, screaming on the floor, scar burning black. And then he thinks of Credence in prison, locked away by the very government that Graves works for. 

“I know you’re sleeping with him,” Tina blurts. Graves’ eyes shoot up to look at her. Her face is worked into a tight grimace, as though she already regrets speaking up. Queenie’s looking very culpable, hands clutched behind her back, eyes studying a book on the table as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. Newt scratches at his head, eyes trailing to the door like he’s calculating how quickly he can escape.

“What?” Graves says stupidly. 

“Queenie told me. Sorry, Queenie. Graves, what are you thinking?”

“Merlin’s fucking beard.” Graves groans and tips his head back against the plush leather arm chair. He knows full well that anything he says will only incriminate him further.

“He’s less than half your age,” Tina hisses. “You are taking _advantage—_ ”

“Now, ehm, Tina,” Newt says awkwardly, and the look she shoots him makes him wither where he stands.

“I think Mr Graves is good for Credence,” Queenie chimes in softly. “He seemed so happy today, tellin’ me all about his spells and his reading, and thinking about… well.” She flushes rosy-pink and Graves forces his mind into a steady scream of _don’t say it don’t say it don’t say it._ She glances at him quickly and then back to Tina. “There’s nothing bad going on, Teenie. It’s all very nice. Mr Graves treats Credence very well and Credence is so happy. He’s so happy that we’re all his friends and that Mr Graves — well.”

She seems to decide now is the time to shut up, and so she takes a step back and turns her gaze back to the floor. Tina still looks like she has a lot more to say, but Newt puts a hand on her arm and her face softens a bit.

They all fall silent and turn to the hallway when they hear the soft shuffle of feet on the floor.

“Hi, Credence,” Tina says gently. “How are you feeling?”

Credence smiles, though it wavers a little. “I’m okay.” He pads across the room to the Graves' chair and tucks himself in beside him, half on his  lap, without a moment’s hesitation. Graves tries to conceal his shock, wrapping an arm around the boy's back.

“Can we go home now?” Credence asks quietly. His wide, blinking eyes fix on Graves, studying his face as though he can read every thought, every feeling. 

Graves nods wordlessly and kisses his temple. The others are all politely looking away. Queenie scurries around the room to collect their mugs. Graves gets up, keeping an arm protectively around Credence’s back. 

“We’re going home. Tina… I’ll talk to you tomorrow about what we’re going to do.”

With that, he apparates them home, Credence clutching tightly at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. i love queenie so much
> 
> 2\. an alternate title for this fic could be "credence barebone gets emo about people touching him"
> 
> thanks for all the love guys, things are getting darker... <3
> 
>  
> 
> [here's the tumblr post for this chapter!](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/182095323180/cannibalteacups-read-chapter-11-of-little-beast)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is so filthy that i'm blushing while i post it. i'm sorry. but i'm not. enjoy!

Credence keeps biting back apologies after Mr Graves takes him home.

After the first mumbled _sorry_ , Mr Graves sits him down and holds his hands and makes him look him right in the eyes and firmly says — “You are _not_ to be sorry, Credence. You have done nothing wrong. Tell me you understand.”

And Credence reluctantly agrees, though the only words perched on his lips all night have been _I’m sorry_ and _please help me._

He doesn’t say either.

Instead, he stays quiet while Mr Graves makes up the bed, sets the water to boil in the kettle, and lays out Credence’s pyjamas for him. He changes while Mr Graves is in the bathroom, and then goes in to wash his face. He feels rather helpless when Mr Graves tucks him into bed and kisses his forehead, telling him he’ll be back in a minute with their tea.

When he leaves, Credence’s body tenses, and when he returns, he relaxes noticeably. Mr Graves gets into bed with him and pulls him close against his body until Credence’s ear is pressed to his chest, listening to the steady drum of his heartbeat. Credence curls into Mr Graves, winding their legs together, wrapping one arm around the man to cling to his back, fingertips clutching a handful of his shirt.

“You’re so strong,” Mr Graves tells him. “I admire you, Credence. I really do.”

Credence’s lips curl up in a hint of a smile and he turns his head to press his lips over Mr Graves’ heart, and then slides up to find his pulse point, lips brushing neck, delighting at the man shivering slightly beneath him.

“Will you take me, then?”

 

——————————————

  
  


Graves tugs Credence back by one shoulder, looking at him dead-on, rather amused. “What do you mean by that?”

Credence falters, eyes darting away nervously. “I mean… will you have me. Sodomize me.” He looks up hopefully and then his face turns positively stricken as Graves starts to chuckle, unable to stop himself.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m not… I’m not laughing at you. You’re just so cute.”

Credence pouts, drawing his eyebrows together, trying his best to look menacing. Graves kisses his wrinkled forehead.

“You know you don’t have to offer yourself up to me like that just because you think it’s what I want. There’s no rush to do that now, or any time soon, or ever at all. You know, not every homosexual couple does things that way. Some people don’t like it.”

“I want to try,” Credence insists. “I’m not just trying to please you, Mr Graves. I want things too, you know.”

“I know,” Graves says quietly, unable to wipe the smile off his face, cupping Credence’s cheek and pressing a thumb into the hollow, watching as the boy’s lips part as he nudges at the hinge of his jaw. “You make it so hard to resist you.”

“Then don’t,” Credence replies, breathless and pink-faced, trying to squirm out of Graves’ grasp to kiss him. Graves toys with him for a moment, keeping him held firmly just a breath away, close enough to feel the tremble of his lips but not close enough to touch.

Credence makes a soft, whining sound and Graves lets him go. He falls into him, open-mouthed and hungry and desperate, tongue licking eagerly into Graves’ mouth, still so clumsy and young. Graves puts a hand on his nape to steady him, and then rolls him over to get on top, to control the kiss. Credence sighs into easy submission, letting himself be overtaken, spread out on the bed like some unholy sacrifice.

“Credence,” Graves says in disbelief. “You’re going to give me a heart attack, I think.”

“Take me,” Credence repeats, and the words sound foreign in his mouth. The boy’s vocabulary is so sweet and uncultivated, colored with the frustration of inexperience, sounding like it’s been pulled from some pulpy romance novel. Graves lets himself play along, just for now.

“Do you want me to make love to you?” He murmurs, mouthing at Credence’s neck, his earlobe, tongue coming out to stroke the inner shell of his ear. He feels Credence tense beneath him, hears his breath hitch. “Or do you want me to _fuck_ you?"

Credence makes a strangled, squeaky sound and Graves takes a mental note to keep overwhelming him with dirty words, because it undoes him so easily.

“I— whatever you want,” Credence whimpers. “Please, I…”

His hips are rocking erratically upward, the hardness already apparent in his pants and pressing up against Graves’ thigh. He flexes the muscle, giving Credence a firm weight to push against while they kiss, wet and filthy and unabashed, spit dripping from both their mouths.

He pulls Credence’s head back again and the boy looks at him through half-closed eyes, lips parted and dark from kissing, looking absolutely depraved.

“Merlin help me,” Graves mutters, and closes his eyes for a moment, because Credence is going to be the death of him, he’s sure of it. 

And then he lays him out on his back, kissing both his cheeks before sitting back on his heels and taking in the sight before him.

“May I take off your pants?”

Credence nods feverishly and Graves smiles, untying the waistband, pulling them down over his hips and knees and ankles and letting them drop to the floor. He rubs Credence’s feet, thumbs massaging the pads of his toes, and then moves up to his ankles, his calves, his bony knees. 

“These?” Graves whispers, tugging at the hem of his underpants. Credence nods again, though he’s a little flushed, not quite meeting his eyes. Graves pulls those off too, and then Credence is bare from the waist down, his cock pink and straining upward so beautifully, damp and rosy at the tip. Credence is still subtly thrusting his hips into empty air, frustration turning his cheeks redder by the second.

“Can I take your shirt off, Credence?”

Credence hesitates, and then he shakes his head.

“Okay. Can I unbutton it?”

He nods slowly. Graves does so, carefully, kissing down Credence’s chest and unbuttoning as he goes. When the shirt falls open and Graves’ lips reach the base of Credence’s cock, surrounded by a thin halo of dark hair, Credence chokes back a moan, trying his best to keep still. Graves mouths up the side of his cock, tongue coming out every so often to lick and stroke, until he reaches the tip, so sweet and pink, precome dripping steadily now.

“Mr Graves— _nngh—_ “

Graves is barely touching him, just ghosting his mouth over the pulsing tip, and Credence is already a wreck, squirming and panting and clutching at the sheets. Graves smiles to himself and takes the head of Credence’s cock into his mouth, tongue laving the underside, and Credence emits barely a squeak and then Graves’ mouth is being filled with warmth, slightly bitter but fully Credence, and so he loves it regardless. He swallows again and again until Credence is finished riding the aftershocks into his mouth, until any movement makes him jerk with oversensitivity, and then he pulls off, sitting back, looking with a hint of smugness at the beautiful and entirely overwhelmed creature laid out before him.

“That — that felt good,” Credence says faintly. 

“Would you like to go to sleep now?”

Credence shakes his head. “I want to — I want you to have me. Everything. You know.”

Graves smiles affectionately and pulls Credence’s pink-soled foot up to his mouth, kissing his ankle and then hooking the leg over his shoulder — just for fun, just to test his flexibility. He’s bendable and so very compliant, letting himself be folded to Graves’ liking, not protesting a bit even as Graves leans forward, pushing his knee toward his shoulder.

“That’s very sweet of you, Credence,” he says gently. “But I’m not ready for that. Is that okay?”

Credence blinks at him for a moment and then nods.

“But there are other things I can give to you. That I would like to give to you.”

“Okay.” Credence’s lips move around the word but only the faintest sound comes out. 

Graves lets Credence’s leg down and kisses his hipbone, and then his lowest rib, and then his sternum, right hand coming up to toy with one nipple, pink and pointed. The boy is delightfully sensitive. His breathy sounds only grow louder as Graves puts his mouth around the other, tongue circling the hard little nub, and then pulls back to blow cool air across it. He waits until Credence is positively panting before he sits back once more.

“Can you turn onto your front for me, dear?”

Credence lifts himself on trembling arms and flips over, folding his arms under his head, feet rubbing together anxiously. The hem of his shirt bunches in the small of his back, and Graves reminds himself not to push it up any further. They've struck such a delicate balance already, and he's not keen on disturbing that. 

He goes to the bedside table to retrieve the bottle of lubricant, Credence straining his neck to peer over his shoulder at him the whole time. He returns, gently nudging Credence’s thighs apart with his knees, settling in between them. Credence’s face is turning pink again and he presses his face into the pillow. 

“M-Mr Graves…”

No matter how insistently he’s been offering up his virginity, Graves knows that Credence has thought of the act only in abstractions, and really has no idea of the actual logistics of the thing. He moves as slowly and cautiously as he can, massaging over the pale curve of Credence’s ass, pert and round and ridiculously cute. He seems to like this, and relaxes into Graves’ touch, but tenses again when Graves goes to thumb his cheeks apart.

“Mr _Graves…_ ”

“What exactly did you think it would mean for me to sodomize you, Credence?” He teases. “Is this really such a surprise?”

“N-no,” Credence says faintly, voice muffled against the pillow, and Graves’ thumb moves down to his opening, pink and tightly furled, so youthful and pretty. Graves says as much, and it brings that sweet blush back to the boy’s face.

“Are you going to—”

“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to,” Graves says soothingly. “And you can change your mind at any point. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Do you promise you’ll tell me if you want to stop?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. How about this — every time I try something new, I want you to give me a color. Red, yellow or green. Green means good, and to keep going. Yellow means to slow down but not stop. You can say it if you aren’t sure, and I’ll be careful. Red means stop, and I’ll stop right away.”

“Okay.”

“You swear you’ll be honest if you’re uncomfortable?”

“ _Yes,_ Mr Graves." Credence sounds almost impatient. Graves gives him a little pat on the bum. 

His thumb trails down to Credence’s tiny pink hole again, rubbing gently, careful not to breach yet. The dry finger against his opening makes Credence gasp quietly.

“Color?”

“Green,” Credence mumbles into the pillow, spreading his legs incrementally wider, revealing himself more to Graves, who continues petting the pad of his finger over Credence’s hole. He keeps going until Credence seems to grow used to the sensation, his breath steadying, and then he reaches for the bottle of lubricant. Credence whines softly at the loss of contact and Graves shushes him, slicking two fingers and, the other hand tugging at one cheek to keep Credence spread apart, running them slowly over his hole.

 

——————————————

  
  


Credence cries out as something cool and very wet touches him _there,_ such an unholy and sinful place, somewhere he’s never even dreamed of being touched.

“Color?”

“Green,” he whimpers, and the finger against his hole starts to trace circles around the rim, slick and soft, just hinting at entrance, at invasion. He wants to say _please_ but he doesn’t know what to ask for; this is so unlike anything he’s dared to think about in his puny, inexperienced mind. His dreams about Mr Graves — the ones that used to have him waking up panting and sweat-slick with sticky sheets — were always vague and abstract, as were the fantasies he conjured up late at night after Ma had gone to bed. Touching himself picturing the man’s shoulders, the hard line of his jaw, hearing his voice, low and smooth in his ear. His feeble, naive brain never managed to concoct anything as real as this. 

But then Mr Graves is pressing, pressing, pushing in, and it burns but in such a nice way, and he slides in to the first knuckle and—

“Mr Graves,” he gasps, twisting beneath him, not sure if he’s trying to escape or get closer. “I— it feels like—”

_It feels like I have to_ go, he means, but it’s too humiliating to say out loud.

“You're okay,” Mr Graves says, his voice a low and comforting hum from behind him. “You don’t have to go to the bathroom, just let your body adjust. Still green?”

Somehow hearing Mr Graves say it is worse and better all at once, both desperately embarrassing and unfathomably arousing.

“Yellow,” Credence mumbles, and he feels guilty for saying it even though Mr Graves made him swear he’d be honest. Credence doesn’t want to offend the man, or make him think he’s hurting him, because Mr Graves is taking such good care of him, being so gentle — it’s really not his fault that Credence is such a baby. 

“Okay,” Mr Graves says, and there’s no hint of disappointment in his voice, though Credence strains to detect it. “Please tell me if it’s red. I’ll go slow.”

Credence nods into the bedsheets and Mr Graves’ finger slides in incrementally further. The sensation of being filled makes the whole of his body tingle with unfamiliarity. It’s alien; it’s unnatural, he knows this. It doesn’t necessarily feel good, but it also doesn’t feel bad. It’s a strange medley of discomfort and tenderness, and he suddenly feels so close to Mr Graves, because the man is  _inside_ of him. Nobody has ever been inside of him before, and he hopes nobody else ever will again.

When Mr Graves’ finger is fully planted within him, and Credence can feel the webbing between his fingers press up around his entrance, he shifts, he curls, and —

Oh. _Oh._

Credence can’t help the sound he makes, something awful and inhuman, caught between a moan and a gasp, breathy and strangled and raw. Mr Graves is touching something inside of him that sets him on fire, every inch, every cell bursting with this strange new pleasure.

“Green,” he chokes, unprompted, and he can almost feel Mr Graves smiling.

He pushes against the spot again and Credence whines, suddenly lightheaded, and then he feels himself fading, pieces breaking off, face and hands evaporating into dark mist. No, no, _no._ He clenches his jaw and tries to pull himself back together, tries to solidify, but Mr Graves is still touching him in that sacred place and it’s too much, he can’t do it.

“Credence?” Mr Graves sounds concerned, his hand stilling. The other comes up to touch his cheek as it reforms from smoke into skin. “Is this too much?”

“I’m sorry,” Credence whispers, and blinks at the humiliated tears that well up in his eyes. “Please don’t stop, Mr Graves, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Please tell me if I’m hurting you.”

“Not hurting,” Credence says faintly. 

Mr Graves kisses his cheek and his hand starts to move again, more slowly this time, gentle and cautious. He works that spot for a little while, until Credence feels dangerously close to coming, and then taps another finger against the skin next to his hole.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” Credence replies, the word floating out on the crest of a breath.

Mr Graves pushes that finger in with the first, not as slowly this time, not as carefully. The stretch is unbelievably lovely, where Credence had been certain it would ache like nothing else. Both fingers pressing on that spot is nearly unbearable, and Credence doesn’t even realize he’s thrashing a bit, legs working against the bed, scrambling, hands rhythmically clenching against handfuls of bedsheet.

“Color?”

Credence doesn't answer, just lifts his ass higher, belly still pressed to the bed, presenting himself in some untaught instinct, trying to say — _Take. Take from me. Take everything._

Mr Graves’ hand stills.

“Credence. Color?”

“Gre-een,” he wails softly, trying to push himself further back onto the fingers that have so cruelly stopped stroking his insides. He’s struck suddenly by his lack of knowledge on the matter of his own body. How could he not have known about this part of him that has the capacity to feel so good? It must be magic. 

Mr Graves starts again, fingers curling, his other hand reaching down to rub Credence’s dick now that his hips are lifted enough to expose it. It’s sensitive already from rutting against the sheets, trapped between his belly and the bed, and Mr Graves touches whisper-soft, knowing immediately the most sensitive parts, the places that send Credence reeling.

“ _Nnh —_ Mr Graves,” he babbles. “Fuck me, please, you can… you can go inside me, please, I want you, want you…”

He feels lips on the small of his back, and then a hand, taken away from his desperate cock, pushing his back down, ass still stuck up obscenely in the air, and then his hand is moving faster and faster, thrusting into him, and Credence can’t breathe. His eyes roll back and his mouth opens soundlessly and Mr Graves is jackhammering his fingers without mercy, without pause. He feels his eyes go misty and cold and his face is leaking smoke but he needs this, needs it so badly, he can’t go back now.

Credence gasps and grips the sheets with shaking hands like he's trying to keep himself there, like if he lets go he's going to float up into the stratosphere, shattered into a million tiny pieces. “Please — please don’t stop…”

Mr Graves seems to have no intention of stopping, holding him down with one firm hand on his back to stop his squirming, finger-fucking him hard and relentless, and suddenly he’s coming, but it’s a different kind. It feels neverending. Like he’s floating in a feeling with no beginning and no end. He cries out and bites down hard on the pillow, face trailing dark smoke, hands disappearing where they’d been clutching the sheets. His hips work desperately, pushing his stuttering cock against the bed, his orgasm coming in long, slow waves as Mr Graves finally stills his fingers. Credence comes back to himself, fully formed, breathing hard.

When Credence is whole again, Mr Graves swirls his fingers in a slow circle inside of him. Oversensitive and aching, Credence presses his cheek into the bed, whimpering. He doesn't want to tell Mr Graves to stop. He wants to take whatever Mr Graves gives him but it _hurts._

"All done?" Mr Graves murmurs, pressing his fingers to that tender spot inside of him.

Credence clenches all over, hissing quietly. "Please, no more."

He pulls out and Credence keens softly at the newfound emptiness, his hole fluttering. Mr Graves pats his ass again with his dry hand.

“My good boy,” he whispers, and he crawls up to fall beside Credence on the bed, pulling him close, petting his sweaty head. “Sweetheart. Did you like that?”

Credence nods, nose squished up against Mr Graves’ neck, still panting weakly and rubbing his feet together to calm himself. He’s beyond words, beyond sight, and he doesn’t want to move. He just wants to be wrapped up and held and to never have to leave Mr Graves’ bed, or more importantly, his arms.

He’s still shaking all over, overtaken by the odd sensation of his very veins shivering within his body. He looks down at his arms and his head goes light. His veins are a web of black crawling up his inner arms, nearly pulsing beneath his papery skin.

“Oh,” he says faintly, dumbly, because he can’t think of anything else to say. He holds up his arm for Mr Graves to see.

The man flinches, frowns, and then pulls Credence’s arm back down to tuck between their bodies. Out of sight.

“Shh,” he says. “You’re okay.”

 

——————————————

  
  


Graves doesn’t want to ruin the post-orgasm glow that Credence is floating in, curled so sweetly against his chest, so he waits until the boy has disentangled himself to go to the bathroom to break the news.

“I’m going to MACUSA tomorrow,” he says. “I’m going to tell President Picquery that you’ve been staying with me.”

Credence appears in the doorway seconds later, tugging his pyjama pants up over his hips. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Graves says, and he can already hear the pleading overtones in his own voice. He tries to ignore the fact that he can still see Credence’s veins, dark and defined in his arms and neck. “I have no other choice.”

“They think I’m evil.”

“It’s our only option.”

“They tried to _kill_ me.”

Credence’s chin is trembling but his voice is steady. His hands are curled into fists at his sides and he stares at Graves with the most accusatory look on his face. Graves starts to feel sick with regret for ruining this perfect, shiny little moment that they’d managed to create in the aftermath of such a horrific day.

So he tries to appeal. “Sweetheart, aren’t you tired of hiding away in this apartment all the time? Think about it. Once I talk it through with Picquery, once I make her understand who you really are, you’ll be free. You can go outside. You can explore. You don’t have to stay holed up in my living room day in and day out.”

“I like it here,” Credence says. “I _like_ being here.”

“Yes, but one day you’re going to get tired of it.”

“Better than being _dead._ ”

Graves swallows hard.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up right now. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, it would be better if you sprung it on me as you walked out the door, I suppose,” Credence says angrily. “Like you did this morning — and look how that turned out.”

Graves’ mouth drops open and he gapes at him. Credence knows how guilty he feels about what happened today and here he is, throwing it back in his face with a mean streak that Graves didn’t know he had. Credence looks at him with wide, pleading eyes, as though he knows he’s being cruel and isn’t quite sure how to stop.

“I’m sorry,” is all Graves can think of to say. “I’m out of options. If you can propose a better plan, I’m all ears.”

It isn’t meant to sound sarcastic, but it does anyway.

“No,” Credence seethes. “You can go ahead and serve me on a silver platter, right back to the people who tried to murder me. Your colleagues, I should say. Your friends.”

And then he slams the door shut. Graves hears the lock click.

He doesn’t move for several minutes. He just sits there on the bed and stares at the wall and hates himself for bringing it up in the first place. He’s an asshole, he knows that. Credence just allowed Graves to open him up and get inside of him and go where nobody else has gone; he’s still tender and sensitive, and Graves chose now of all times to tell him the absolute last thing he wants to hear. Stupid. _Stupid._

He hears no sounds from the bathroom. He wonders if Credence is hovering at the ceiling, a dark and sullen cloud, repairing his shell and vowing to never be vulnerable again.

He goes to knock on the door. When there’s no answer, he tests the doorknob. Still locked. He could easily _alohamora_ it open, but he won’t.

“Credence? Can you let me in?”

No response comes.

“Baby, please. I want to be close to you right now.”

There’s another moment of silence and then the door opens. Credence doesn’t meet his eyes, glaring at the floor, but he’s solid and whole and very much himself. Graves breathes out a small sigh of relief.

“I thought you might have gone obscurus on me,” he says lightly, giving the boy a little smile. Credence doesn’t look up.

“You know I’m working on that,” he mutters.

“You are, and you’ve been doing so well.”

“Don’t _patronize_ me.”

Graves wonders where he learned that word. It sounds new on his lips. “I’m not trying to, darling. Honestly. Will you come back to bed?”

“I want to sleep in my own bed.”

That just about shatters his heart.

“Credence,” he says sadly. “Sweetheart. I’m so sorry."

Credence finally looks up, glowering from under dark brows, and it would be frightening if it wasn’t so cute: an angry puppy, a sweet boy trying his best to look mean. Graves knows him better than that, and wants to tell him as much; instead, he opens his arms to Credence, who hesitates only for a moment before falling into his embrace.

Graves smiles against the boy’s shoulder. “Will you come to bed with me? It’s very selfish, I know, but it’s much colder when I don’t have you all wrapped around me.”

“Fine,” Credence mumbles. “But I’m still mad at you.”

“I know, darling. I know.”

Regardless, Credence crawls into bed beside him, and regardless, he wraps himself entirely around Graves’ body, skinny frame sprawled across his chest, heartbeat in double-time with Graves’ own.

“I’ll always protect you,” Graves says, and the words feel familiar falling from his lips, as though he’s said them a thousand times before.

“I know,” Credence replies. “And that’s something. But it isn’t everything.”

“No,” Graves agrees. “But it’s everything I’ve got.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in summary, graves has to go back to macusa, something dark (grindelwald's magic? the obscurus?) is slowly eating credence's body, graves is pretty much obsessed and hopelessly in love, and credence likes getting fingered.
> 
> thanks for all your sweet comments, they're like my lifeblood!! i hope you guys are ready for the next couple chapters cause from here on in, shit's gonna go DOWN.
> 
> [here's the post for this chapter on tumblr! <3](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/182165692515/read-chapter-12-of-little-beast-on-ao3-credence)


	13. Chapter 13

Every negotiation tactic falls short when Graves tries to convince Credence to go stay with Tina and Newt. Only for the day, only for a couple hours, really — regardless, he won’t budge. He sits prettily on the couch while he all but pretends he doesn’t hear a word Graves says.

Graves tries to reason with him, and then he threatens him. He vows to have Tina and Newt apparate over here and embarrass him in his stubbornness. Credence just quirks an eyebrow and turns back to his workbook, tracing out words in neat printed letters. It’s like he’s constructed a flawless mask of indifference overnight. Nothing fazes him.

When even his bargains and guilt-trips don’t work (with Graves practically on his knees — _please Credence, for my sake, so I’m not out of my mind worrying_ ) he gives up. If Credence feels the need to punish him in his own strange way, then maybe he deserves it. But this is about his safety and it really isn’t time to play games.

“You’re petulant,” Graves mutters as he pulls on his coat, unable to walk out the door without getting a jab in. After all the work they’ve done to teach him to protect himself, it seems Credence still doesn’t value his own life whatsoever.

“And you’re selfish.” They’re the first words Credence has spoken all morning. Graves clenches his fists.

“Fine. Do what you will. Put yourself in danger. You’re a brat, Credence.” And he doesn’t mean it, but he says it anyway. “I’m getting tired of you.”

“Cruelty for cruelty’s sake,” Credence hisses, and he finally looks up. “What if something happens to you today? Do you want that to be the last thing you said to me?”

“I don’t care,” Graves says, but he really, really does. He slams the door.

The morning sun is nearly blinding, but he endures it because he’s too pissed off to apparate. He needs the walk to clear his head before he goes in to plead his case to Seraphina.

From where he stands on the sidewalk, the Woolworth building looms over him in a way it never has before. He squints up to where the turrets scrape the sky. The angle makes him dizzy, as does the very thought of the conversation he’s about to have. He could easily lose his job, but that’s far from his biggest concern. The wards around his apartment have been strengthened to the height of his ability, but still he fears Seraphina could send her _hit squad_ , as Tina coined it, to capture Credence and drag him off to prison.

But he’s known her for years, and he thinks that maybe he can talk her down. Maybe.

It’s the only real option now, because there’s no way they can move forward with any sort of reasonable plan while she still believes Credence is at Nurmengard. He’s her first line of attack, and right now he’s curled up on Graves’ couch, drinking hot cocoa and learning how to spell various animal names. Once she’s come to terms with that — if she comes to terms with it — they can work out a way to go after Grindelwald that doesn’t involve Credence.

Someone bumps into him — _hey, buddy, you’re in the way —_ but he barely even glances in their direction. One hundred possible outcomes flash through his head like a film reel. If Picquery seems unreasonable, adamant in Credence’s status as a criminal, he’ll apparate home as quickly as he can and take Credence away with him. Maybe they could go somewhere warmer, some no-maj paradise where they’ll never be found. Tina and Newt could help them disappear.

None of this matters: this building or this job or these people. He doesn’t care. He cares about approximately two things, one of them being Credence’s safety, and the other being Credence’s happiness. Merlin, he feels like an idiot. Always spoiling for a fight. He has half a mind to go back home and apologize for the awful things he said, take Credence with him and disappear to a beach house on the coast or a villa overseas, and never think about this place or these people again.

He rubs his eyes until stars pop against the dark of his lids. It won’t help to think like that now. He has to treat Seraphina like an old friend, like he’s here to ask a favor. He steels himself, pulls his shoulders back, and walks toward the door.

 

——————————————

 

Credence waves his hand across the rim of his mug to reheat his drink with magic the way Mr Graves taught him. He tends to be more impressed by the little domestic charms than he is by any sort of battle-magic; he finds so much joy in tidying a room with a simple motion of his hand, making water pour itself into a cup, and even cooking food in mid-air, which he’s only tried a couple times. He doesn’t have much experience preparing anything but porridge and gruel, but Mr Graves has taught him a few things.

He finishes his current page — _tiger, horse, monkey —_ and flips to the next. _Celery, sprout, artichoke._ His hand aches from hours of writing; little sparks of pain shoot through his fingers when he sets down his pencil and flexes them. He clenches and unclenches his fist. He wants to work until the moment Mr Graves comes home, to keep his mind off of whatever fate the man is being bestowed with at his workplace right now. 

The argument this morning was Credence’s fault. He knows that. Mr Graves wants to protect him, and goes to the ends of the earth just to make sure he’s okay — and Credence turns around and acts like a child.

He tries to pull his mind away from the matter, to go back to his work, but the monotonous task of writing out letters makes it too easy to zero back in on what scares him the most. He sets his book aside and practices some spells instead.

With all the lights off, he tries _lumos._ A ball of glowing light blooms in his hands and floats when he lets go. He tries again with his wand, to no avail. He lifts fruit from the basket, summons books across the room, and makes water pour from his palms.

Warmed by a vague surge of pride, and entirely unfocused on his concern for Mr Graves, he goes into the living room to find the book he likes to flip through: the one that Newt wrote, with all the photographs of magical beasts that prance and roar on the pages. No matter how many books he looks at, he’ll never get used to seeing the pictures move. How Mr Graves and all these other wizards can be so jaded and unenthused by such a magical thing is beyond him.

He’s only just sat down to open the book when the front door opens.

 

——————————————  
  


 

“Director Graves,” Seraphina says. Amusement glints in her eyes. “Should you not be in your office, surrounded by tedious reports from — what is it you called my new aurors? _Incompetent dimwits_? Considering you were so desperate to return to your job.”

“I need to talk to you, Seraphina.”

She delicately closes the folder spread out before her. “Yes?”

“Can I sit?”

She nods to the chair in front of her desk and he sits down. He stalls suddenly in the pressure of her gaze. He’s never been afraid of her before — maybe a little intimidated, but never so much that he found himself speechless. Now, though, there’s more at stake than ever before.

“Percival,” she says, and her sharp tone tugs him out of his stupor. “I don’t have all day, you know.”

“Ah — sorry.” He taps a finger to his chin. “Credence Barebone.”

“The obscurial, yes. Do you have new information?”

Graves winces. “I have information, but you may not be too keen on it.”

“Spit it out, Graves. What’s gotten into you today?”

The words tumble out of his mouth before he can have a say in their arrangement. “Credence Barebone has been living in my house for the past two months. I rescued him from Nurmengard and I’ve been teaching him magic. He is not a villain, he is not a weapon, he is a kind and gentle young man who is learning to control his obscurus. He’s powerful but he has no desire to do anybody harm. Except maybe Grindelwald, but I’m not letting him anywhere near that man unless he’s chained up and drained of his power.”

Picquery is silent for a moment. The entire room takes on the weight of his confession, the air so heavy that it tips his head downward and breaks their gaze. His ears fill up with static. He clenches his fist where it rests on his thigh, ready to dart out the room to the city streets and apparate home the moment he senses her tensing for a fight.

“Oh,” is all she says. She makes a steeple of her hands, resting her forehead against them, eyes shut and lips pursed. “I see.”

“Seraphina, I’m coming to you, not as the Director of Magical Security—”

“Obviously,” she snaps. “Because the Director of Magical Security would _never—_ ”

“But as your friend,” he cuts her off and looks to her with pleading eyes. “You know me, Seraphina, and I’m not stupid. I’m not easily convinced of anybody’s innocence, and I had no reason to want to protect this kid's interests. But he’s… he’s not a monster. He’s a living and breathing human, and beyond that, he’s one of our kind. He deserves to live, and to live a good life at that.”

Seraphina’s eyes narrow and then close. Her mouth falls open and she shakes her head. “Percival _._ You are _not_ implying what I think you’re implying.”

“I didn’t say anything!” He protests.

“No,” she seethes. “But I can hear you loud and clear.”

“All I’m saying is that Credence Barebone should not be executed or imprisoned. Any conclusions you gather outside of that are not my concern.”

Seraphina glowers at him. “I thought better of you, Director Graves. To bed not only a dangerous, out-of-control _killer,_ but one who’s so young at that.”

“And I thought better of you than to try to murder a child.”

“If he’s a child then you’re an absolute—”

“If he’s a child,” Graves interrupts, “then we’re both culpable. But he’s not. He’s a smart and strong young man and he should be cleared of any suspicion.”

They’re both silent for a moment, and if looks could kill they’d both be long dead. It’s nearly comforting in its familiarity, this rhythm they settle into so easily: sword-sharp words shot back and forth like a violent game of ping pong, each unwilling to surrender, even if only to make things easier for themselves. It’s the near-maniacal resentment born out of working together for so many years — Ilvermorny, and then auror training, and then a split in the road when Seraphina veered into politics and Graves stayed firm in his fighting boots. 

It isn’t hatred. Not even close. 

“He’ll draw Grindelwald to America.”

Graves swallows. A familiar dread twists in his gut. “That could be a good thing.”

“Or a very bad thing.”

“If Grindelwald does follow him here, or me, for that matter… it could be a good chance for us to stop him.”

“Or for us to be killed, our cover to be blown, and the peace we’ve worked for to be destroyed!” She bangs her fist on the desk and her fury rattles him. He does his best to choose his words carefully.

“I’m sorry for not telling you right away, Seraphina. I really am. And I’m sorry for defying your orders so blatantly and fully. But you owe me one, remember? Let this be that one.”

“That’s a pretty big one,” she says through her teeth.

“Seven months,” Graves mutters. “Seven goddamned months. You owe me a big one.”

She glares at him, irate, and then finally pushes her chair back and stands. “I believe that Grindelwald is going to be drawn to New York to come after the obscurus. The whole _reason_ he impersonated you was to get the thing in his possession, there’s no way he’s letting that go. From here on out, we’re planning for that. We’ll be prepared when he comes.”

Graves nods. He doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until he lets it out. “Thank you.”

“This discussion isn’t over, _Director_ Graves,” she hisses. “It’s simply suspended until we’ve captured Grindelwald. After that, we’ll return to the matter.”

He nods. “May I go? I’d like to go home and check on Credence. He was a little upset when I left this morning.”

“Ah, the domestic,” she mutters. He doesn’t let himself be stung by her sickened tone; her opinion doesn't matter, not on anything but the state of Credence’s life. And for now, it’s to be preserved, so he can live with her disapproval.

“One more thing,” Graves says. His fingers curls around the edge of the doorframe.

Seraphina gives no response but a subtle tip of her chin.

“Seven months, Seraphina. How in _Merlin’s name_ did you not know?”

“Forgive me for not noticing a slight difference in the manner of your daily nods and one-worded quips, Director Graves,” she says in a dry voice. “Perhaps I might have grown suspicious if I’d expected anything more from you.”

With that, Graves turns on his heel and strides quickly out of the building.

Once out on the street he turns a corner and apparates to his block — just around the corner, headed for the flower stand run by a kind no-maj who greets him on the mornings he walks to work.

“Oh, Percival,” she says in her wavering voice. “How are you today?”

“Very well, Miss Marigold.” He smiles warmly despite the tremor beneath his skin that grows more violent with every step he takes towards his apartment. “A bouquet of red roses, please.” 

He doesn’t know quite what drives him to do it, but it seems like it’s right. Maybe Credence will appreciate the gesture for its ridiculous cliche alone. Besides, he figures the point of reference Credence has for the romantic, if any, would veer more towards no-maj ideals than any wizarding tricks. He hands over some no-maj bills he keeps in his wallet and takes the bouquet, thanks her, and then hurries off down the street.

The moment he reaches his door, something sinks inside of him. The wards are broken.

Credence must have been practicing his spells. He must have lost control or done something without realizing it. He must have broken through the shields because he’s so powerful, he’s so beyond anything Graves has ever seen in the wizarding world. He _could_ destroy Graves’ most powerful wards without a single thought. Repeating these empty reassurances do nothing to calm his intemperate heart. Cold fear settles over him like a hospital sheet.

He pushes the door open, wand held up in front of him. “Credence?”

Before he can even take notice of his surroundings, there’s a flash of white light and his body is whipped through the air. He lands squarely in one of his dining room chairs. His wand is discarded somewhere unseen, roses strewn across the floor by the doorway. He struggles against the invisible magical bonds that hold him flush to the chair, arms behind his back. He can’t move an inch; he can’t even turn his head.

And then his eyes manage to focus, his head tunes in, and he hears the screaming.

Anguished. Blood-chilling.

_Credence._ There’s never been a sound in Graves’ ears more awful than this, and Credence is there on the floor, and —

“Percival Graves.”

Gellert Grindelwald leers at him. His dark eye stares; his white eye glows. He stands so calmly in the center of the room while Credence’s body writhes helplessly on the floor before him. Grindelwald glances down at the boy and flicks his wand with a rather bored expression. “Crucio.”

Credence’s screams grow louder, the curse freshly recanted. His body jerks horribly, unnaturally, cast in an eerie blue glow that makes him look dead. Dark smoke leaks from his collar and sleeves and then gets sucked back in, over and over again. 

He’s trying to turn into the obscurus and he _can’t._

“ _Please!_ ” Graves shouts. “Do it to me instead. You can torture me all you’d like. Let him go.”

Grindelwald tilts his head in mock-consideration. He speaks as though teaching a lesson to a witless child. “And why should I do that?”

“He’s done nothing wrong. I forced him to come with me. He didn’t want to leave you. Please, stop hurting him.”

Grindelwald sighs, and for a second there’s a bright flicker of hope; for a second Graves lets himself believe that the man will take mercy and cast his wand upon him instead.

He flicks it at Credence again.

“ _Cru-_ cio,” he says, sing-song, playful and sickening. Credence shrieks and thrashes and Graves’ mind shatters into a million little pieces. There’s nothing he can do. He’s never been this powerless, not even seven months deep in a cell in the ground. None of his wandless magic is working against whatever curse Grindelwald is using to bind him. 

Up against the most powerful dark wizard in the world, and once again he’s failed.

Only this time it’s worse, because he hasn’t just failed himself. That he can handle; that he can contend with. But he’s failed Credence as well. He should have insisted on bringing him to Tina’s. He should have stayed with him. He never should have left him here alone. 

The sound of Credence’s screaming has become a ceaseless ringing in his ears. Neverending. The screams grow scratchier and more strained as the boy wears his voice down.

“Please,” Graves says, and he can almost taste the defeat, bitter on his tongue. “Let him go.”

Grindelwald lifts his wand and Credence’s body stills and goes silent. His fragile chest heaves. His eyes are half-open but blank, empty. He doesn’t look at Graves. He doesn’t look at anything. He’s never seemed more delicate, as if the bones of his body could snap like twigs.

“I see you’ve grown fond of my boy,” Grindelwald murmurs. He nudges Credence’s side with the toe of his boot like he’s some worthless thing that’s been discarded on the floor. Graves seethes at the words _my boy_ coming from the man’s filthy, undeserving mouth. “Why is that, Mr Graves?”

“Please don’t hurt him,” Graves says. He tries to keep his voice steady as he searches through his patchy memory to auror training. Lessons on negotiation and hostage situations. It’s like trying to recall a dream as it’s slipping away, the knowledge always just out of reach. _Don’t play his games. Repeat your request; keep it simple. Don’t answer questions. Don’t play along._

Grindelwald gives him that sickening, toothy smile again before he turns back to Credence. He waves his wand like a whip in the air. _“Crucio!_ ”

He doesn’t have to say it. Grindelwald is unmatched in his power; he can cast any spell without uttering a word. He _wants_ Graves to hear it. He wants him to know exactly what he’s doing, exactly how Credence is suffering. He stands so casually in Graves’ home, on the gunstock wood of his living room floor, and he hurts and hurts and hurts his boy, and looks as though nothing pleases him more.

People have been tortured to death with this curse. People have been driven to insanity and never returned.

Wisps of dark smoke start to emerge from Credence’s collar and sleeves again. _Yes, Credence, come on, sweetheart. Turn over. Escape the pain._ Except Credence still can’t transform. He tries and he tries; the smoke seeps out and then gets pulled back in again, over and over, as Credence is dragged back to his physical form.

“You’re _killing_ him!” Graves watches as every last bit of tension in Credence’s body is drained out. He goes limp, still seizing with the power of the curse. “Credence, baby, come on, you can turn, you can draw it out.”

Why did he _ever_ encourage Credence to repress the obscurus? Now his only defence is gone; his one shield can’t protect him. “Come on, Credence, let it out, _please.”_

Grindelwald laughs gleefully. “Oh, Percival, you think he can hear you now?”

“Fuck, shut _up!_ ” Graves thrashes in his chair. His head echoes a constant stream of silent spells. Nothing works. Credence’s face starts to trail off into dark mist before it reforms, again and again. He can’t escape.

“You think this empty shell of a boy belongs to you?” Grindelwald croons. He leans in close to Graves’ face and smiles at him. All teeth, like a shark. “But watch how he dances for _me_.”

His wand waves once more and Credence is lifted again, a corpse reanimated violently with limbs that flail like some awful, tortured marionette.

When Grindelwald raises his wand again Credence drops, deadweight. His eyes open, still vacant and flat. Grindelwald presses his foot down onto Credence’s chest, and then his belly. Graves watches him jerk and squirm weakly, trying to escape the pressure as Grindelwald digs the toe of his wingtip boot in below his ribs, grinning all the while.

“What should I do with this pretty little thing? Any ideas, Percival? He’s so _soft._ ”

He crouches down beside the boy, who stares back at him, silent in his terror. Graves could explode into an obscurus himself at any fucking moment.

“I’m sure you’ve taken your turn already, haven’t you,” Grindelwald murmurs. He grasps Credence’s jaw in one pale hand and thumbs at the hinge, forcing Credence’s lips apart. “This was supposed to be _mine,_ Percival. And you took him from me. The things I could have given to you.” He addresses Credence now and shakes his head with theatrical regret. “The things I could have done for you."

“Don’t touch him,” Graves rasps.

Grindelwald turns. “How very sweet this whole thing is. Although, he is quite young for you, don’t you think?”

He stands again. His eyes travel from Graves, furious and shaking in his chair, and Credence, defeated and motionless on the floor. He looks almost disappointed, as though he was expecting a more entertaining scene.

“Well,” he sighs. “I suppose we have to make our own fun in this life, don’t we, Percival?”

With that, he hooks a hand under Credence’s arm and yanks him to his feet. Graves panics, but all Grindelwald does is force him to stand. The boy stumbles and sways in place, gaze fixed on the ground. He hasn’t faced Graves once since he got home. All Graves wants is to meet his eyes, to speak to him, to make sure he’s still there beneath the layers and layers of hurt.

Grindelwald cracks another smile at Graves and then points his wand at Credence.

“ _Imperio.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry for this cliffhanger and the cliffhangers that are still to come.
> 
> we're getting down to it! i've been so excited to get to these last few chapters - that is, i was excited until i sat down to edit them and realized that writing action scenes is _hard_. but i've spent some time poring over every word and i hope you guys feel as anxious reading this as i did writing it, but that the anxiety will clear away and become satisfaction and love and joy in the end :)
> 
> thank you, as always, for all of your lovely comments and kudos! <3
> 
> [here's the post for this chapter on tumblr](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/182263846155/read-chapter-13-of-little-beast-on-ao3-credence)


	14. Chapter 14

At the sound of the word, there’s no more pain. Credence can’t remember what it’s like to be frightened — he’s floating, and he’s happy, and everything else is gone. He’s felt the bright, pulsing hell of Crucio, and he wants to tell Mr Graves he’s sorry for ever asking. For ever being curious. He wishes he didn’t know. 

After hours under its electric veil, he doesn’t really feel like a person anymore, but this is so nice. Calm wraps him in its sun-bright haze. Everything sounds very far away, and muffled; the room looks blurry, as if he’s seeing it through a sheer curtain that renders everything soft and indistinct.

Grindelwald’s voice reverberates around him, low and soothing. _Walk toward Mr Graves._ Grindelwald’s mouth hasn’t moved. The words sound like they’re coming from inside his own head — but Credence has no space to be confused. Just happy. Just content.

His legs move of their own volition and bring him to stand a few feet from where Mr Graves is sitting. He looks so frightened, but Credence can’t figure out why. When he’s this close, he usually thinks about kissing Mr Graves, but right now he isn’t thinking about that. It confuses him a little bit. He can’t think about anything but standing here, in this place, safe and warm and light. He can’t feel his feet touching the floor.

_Touch his face. His cheek. Be gentle, now._

Credence smiles. He remembers that he likes to do this. He reaches out and strokes the soft, perfectly shaved skin of Mr Graves’ beautiful face. The man trembles beneath his touch. Credence’s thumb traces over his lip, and then his jawline, and then smooths his dishevelled hair back into place. He is gentle. He is always gentle, because he would never hurt Mr Graves. He starts to get confused again, but whenever he comes close to being upset the feelings are pulled out of him, replaced with peaceful fog, any worries in his mind quieted swiftly. It’s a relief to not have to think, not have to feel.

_Very good. Now step back._

One, two, three steps back. He tilts his head and frowns. Mr Graves is saying something, screaming something, shaking his head, but there’s no sound. He looks so scared. He looks angry. Fear starts to drip into Credence’s blood like a slow IV, but once again the feeling is whisked out of his body and he’s left entirely vacant, unable to recall his thoughts from a few seconds earlier. He watches his own arm reach out in front of him. His wand is clutched in his hand. _But my wand doesn’t work. I don’t know how to use it. Why am I holding it?_

The voice in his head doesn’t answer.

He tries to focus his eyes on Mr Graves, but everything is blurry and blissful. A cloud of nothing. He can’t fully see or understand but he doesn’t mind. Mr Graves is still shaking his head and shouting and he wishes he could hear. He likes to hear Mr Graves. He wants to hear every word he ever says.

_You know the curse, darling, don’t you? Such a good boy. You’re going to be brave for me, now._

 

——————————————

 

Credence’s eyes are misted with something inhuman, something cursed and dark. One steady hand holds his wand straight out in front of him. How could Graves have been so _stupid?_ He left Credence here alone with all the red flags in the world waving right in his face. Every clue pointed to an end like this and he ignored them all. He let Credence sulk and he left him alone and he didn’t protect him.

“What shall we make him do?” Grindelwald asks, almost conversational. “The curse is hardly necessary, he’s so eager to please. Although I’m sure you know that already.”

“Stop,” Graves spits. “Stop it.”

“Oh, Percival,” Grindelwald tuts. “Play along, lest this become much worse for you. No, the boy is very malleable, but he needs some gentle urging here and there.” He smiles at Credence and Credence smiles back. Graves feels sick. “Is he still having his nightmares? When I took him to bed with me, he used to wake up whimpering, used to wrap himself around me as though I could save him from what lives inside his own head…”

“ _Stop!_ ” Graves’ voice lands halfway between a shout and a sob, clotting in his chest like blood. “Just kill me, Gellert. Go ahead.”

“You’re inconsequential,” Grindelwald hisses. “You’re nothing, Percival Graves, nothing but a shell I put myself in to get to the boy. Your friends didn’t even notice you were gone. Who are you, really? Nobody. There is nothing of substance within you, nothing for people to miss. No, killing you would not be… satisfying. Simply disposing of something useless.”

The words sting, but Graves doesn’t show it. He clenches his jaw and looks at Grindelwald straight on. “If you’re going to do something, do it yourself. Don’t hide behind Credence and have him do your dirty work. Don’t make him a killer.”

“Oh, but he is a killer,” Grindelwald's voice is stained ugly with malicious pleasure. “He killed the Senator, an innocent man. He killed his own mother and sister. This shield of innocence and purity you like to cast around him is fooling nobody. He has killed, and under my gentle guidance, he will kill again. Once my boy has a taste of true power, he will not mourn for you, nor will he yearn for these days of playing house with you — his dull, impotent babysitter.”

“You’re a coward.”

Grindelwald laughs and shakes his head. “Do you think you can hurt me with your petty words?”

“The obscurus won’t last,” Graves says, and it comes out between laboured breaths, his voice cracking. “It won’t, and you know that.”

The smile Grindelwald gives him is all teeth. “It will last long enough to serve my purpose. Would you like to hear my plan for our special little boy?”

Graves shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. But Grindelwald doesn’t care if he’d like to know. He’ll tell him anyway.

“Credence is going to become a very powerful tool for the side of the greater good. For my side. When we inevitably go to war with _les non-magiques_ , as well as any wizards who oppose us, those who are not pure of blood or spirit… I will need something different. Something unique.” They both look to Credence, who’s motionless and smiling; he has no orders to follow so he just _stands._ “Credence, here, is a rarity. A mutation. The host is useless — it’s the obscurus that I want. You need not weep so protectively over his pitiful body. He’s not my type, Percival. I won’t touch him. At least not the way that you do.”

Graves snarls at that, pulling at his bonds, glowering up at Grindelwald.

“No, I have no use for his body — so I’ll drain him. I’ll drain him of all thought, all life and all soul. He’ll be nothing but a shell to keep the obscurus alive, to feed it. When it’s run its course I will dispose of him. If you would like his body returned to you, for whatever deviant things you’d like to do to it…” Grindelwald grins at him, and it’s ugly and violent and horrible. “Well, you know I pass no judgement."

The air feels ice cold. Graves’ anger builds into something that’s almost calm, eyes slowly falling shut, breath coming sharp from his lungs, sharp enough to puncture his airway and bleed out into the trembling core of him. It might as well, because it’s all over anyway.

Credence hasn’t moved an inch: he stands, dopey and blissful, wand raised into the air. His arm doesn’t tremble. He waits for direction.

Grindelwald holds out his hands to the boy and Graves flinches — but he simply presents him with a box, ornately carved cherry wood, closed with gold latches.

“Do you know what this is, my darling?” Credence can’t answer of his own accord; he just stares. Grindelwald smiles. “This is everything you’ve wanted, all this time. In this box are your birth records, your family history, the story of who you are. Of who you were meant to be. My boy, all this can be yours, and you can move forward with your life knowing the truth. This man, he doesn’t matter. He’s nothing. What matters is you, in all your power and glory. You will do great things, if only you can let go of these meaningless attachments.”

Graves could fill an ocean with his wrath, but he can’t even find his voice. He can do nothing but sit and watch as Grindelwald speaks to Credence. The box hangs between them like a sacrament. This elusive thing that holds all Credence wants, what he’s expressed his sweet and hopeful longing for so many times. And Graves dismissed it. Ignored it. 

Credence wants a family. A story. Some kind of explanation for where he came from, for why he ended up where he is. _What_ he is. He wants a reason: for his suffering at the hands of his adoptive mother, for his abandonment by the one who bore him, for his life as an unwilling ascetic with scars on his palms and a head full of nightmares.

He wants proof that he didn’t belong there.

Whatever Grindelwald has concealed in that box may alter the course of Credence’s life, but only if he lets it. Graves wants to tell him that it doesn’t matter, that it doesn’t change who he’s been all this time, but it’s too late. He can’t tell him now. Credence can’t hear him, and if Grindelwald gets his way, he’ll never hear a word Graves says again.

His head echoes with Credence’s soft voice only hours ago: _what if something happens to you today? Do you want that to be the last thing you said to me?_

Graves is an idiot. He’s a goddamned marvel of an idiot.

“Here, Credence,” Grindelwald says, with all the expectant kindness of someone training a puppy. “Come to me.”

Credence goes. His eyes are faded, cast with a glossy film. He walks promptly but lifelessly over to Grindelwald. Grindelwald opens his arms and Credence steps into them. His hands come up to wrap around the awful man’s back. Grindelwald cradles the back of Credence’s head, palming over the gentle curls that have grown thick and shiny while his thumb caresses his skull in a hollow imitation of affection. Credence’s head relaxes on Grindelwald’s shoulder and he makes a quiet, pleased sound as Grindelwald’s other hand rubs slow circles on his back.

“Oh, he _likes_ this,” Grindelwald says, and Graves wants to die. Wants Grindelwald to die. Wants the whole world to explode and disappear, because nothing could be worse than this.

Nothing could be worse than the way Grindelwald cups the back of Credence’s head the same way Graves does, with all of the possessiveness but none of the warmth. Nothing could be worse than the way Credence goes loose and pliant in his arms, face so soft and happy. It doesn’t matter that he’s under Imperius; it doesn’t matter that all of his contentment is orchestrated. Graves still has to watch. And Credence still has to be touched by this man, this reptile, this vile waste of magic.

“Show me, my boy,” Grindelwald says. “Do what I say, and I will give you what you want.” 

It’s all theatrics. Grindelwald’s grand, dramatic scene that plays out before him is all under his own control, a child performing his intricate puppet show to an empty room. Regardless of what he says, Credence will do what he’s told. Graves has seen awful things happen under the sway of Imperius, things that stuck in his head for years, freeze-framed in his nightmares. The weight starts to settle over him and he closes his eyes.

If he must die, death at Credence’s hands is the only way he’d have it.

When he opens his eyes again, Credence is there in front of him, wand pointed directly at his face. The slightest tremble teases the boy’s lip, but his eyes are still glazed over with Grindelwald’s magic. His movements are almost robotic.

The dark irises Graves has grown to love are still there behind the haze. Credence looks at him blankly. Graves has never been under Imperius and he has no idea if Credence can even hear him, but there’s nothing else left that he can do. “Credence," he says quietly. "My sweet boy. My good boy.”

Credence blinks once, and Graves could swear his eyes flicker back to dark for a split second before going cloudy again. It’s so quick that he could have easily dreamed it up — he is starting to go delirious with sorrow, after all — but he clings to it. 

“Credence,” he says again, and he’s crying, weeping, taking in ragged breaths, hot tears sticking to his cheeks. It doesn’t matter that Grindelwald will hear everything he says. He doesn’t care. “I’m so sorry for what I said this morning. I didn’t mean it, sweetheart, you know that. You’re not a brat, and you’re not petulant. You’re good and you’re patient and you’re kind, and I’m the most ungrateful, undeserving man on the planet for ever saying otherwise. I could never get tired of you, Credence. I love you.”

There’s a flash of green, and a voice screams _Avada Kedavra!_

Everything goes black, black, black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know this chapter is short and also a terrible cliffhanger - i'm so sorry! it's the only way the pacing made sense, i swear! ;)
> 
> i took a bunch of liberties with imperio cause i don't remember details of it from the original books. also, i know grindelwald isn't french but he's totally the type of asshole to say random things in french just to sound cool. fuck him. 
> 
> thanks for all your comments and shares guys, they keep me motivated!! we're almost at the end... <3
> 
> [here's the tumblr post for this chapter :)](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/182338455145/read-chapter-14-of-little-beast-on-ao3-credence)


	15. Chapter 15

The film reel behind Graves' eyelids sputters to a dead stop. Negatives burnt, smoke billowing out. The world confines itself to four stark images that his eyes flip between:

One. Credence in the centre of the room, bent with his hands on his knees, eyes round as saucers, breath rattling from his mouth like a faulty engine.

Two. His own body beneath him, unbound and free, hands outstretched.

Three. Credence’s wand, splintered in half on the floor at his feet.

Four. Gellert Grindelwald’s body, motionless and pale and _dead_ on his carpet. A mannequin. A wax figure. 

Graves swallows back the bile that rises in his throat and clambers to his feet. He stumbles and nearly trips over himself. He’s bleeding from somewhere on his front; his shirt is soaked through with violent red. Cherry-pop, grenadine, the same hue that flushes Credence’s lips on the nights they kiss for hours, when the bed takes on their shape and the sheets wrap around them like a second skin.

He reaches out blindly and then Credence is against him, pressed into his chest. His body feels so small. Like the torture ate the very marrow from his bones. He heaves against Graves and his voice babbles incoherently but all Graves can hear is a low roar and a high, shrill ring, octaves singing incessantly inside his head. The world tilts and he plants his feet firmly on the floor.

Credence’s mouth is moving but Graves must have lost his grip on the English language because nothing makes sense. _Avada. Help me. Mister. Please. C is for Credence. Help me. Crucio._ He closes his eyes and shakes his head violently. His equilibrium is fucked to Hell; he can hear every drip of fluid in his ears —

“Mr Graves!”

Credence pounds his fists weakly against Graves’ chest and looks up at him with desperate, teary eyes. Graves holds onto Credence’s arms to steady him, though he’s shaking twice as badly. 

“Credence, you—”

“I’m so sorry,” Credence whispers. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Did you—”

“Yes,” he sobs. “Yes.”

“ _Credence._ ” Graves pulls him tight against his body and squeezes. He wants to shrink Credence into something he can carry with him always, something he can contain within his own body, never let him out of his sight. Protect him from any earthly harm. Credence pulls back and presses Graves' wand into his hand, gently, like it might shatter at his touch. Considering the state of his own wand, he might not be wrong. He runs his fingertips down Graves' chest and then his hand falters.

“You’re bleeding,” he says. The words break in his voice and his face crumples despairingly. When he cries, his chin becomes a valley of small dimples. Graves wants to reach out and press the pad of his thumb into each and every one of them. Credence's hand hovers over the stain on his own shirt where the fabric blooms with Graves’ blood. “Mr Graves, it must be my fault, my magic, it must have… I’m so sorry, I —” 

Abruptly, he breaks from Graves’ hold. 

“I’m so sorry," he says. "I need to know.”

“Not now, Credence,” Graves pleads. He spreads his fingers flat over his belly. It doesn’t really hurt, but then again, he can’t feel much of anything right now. “When we’ve calmed down, and when _he_ ’ _s_ gone… please, not now.”

Credence just gives him one unreadable look and then bolts, but Graves is on his heels, and then they’re both diving for it, and — 

They’re spun viciously. Wildly. Graves doesn’t even have a second to register what’s happened before they’re both dropped onto cold, damp grass. The sky, dusty grey-blue, spins like he's had one too many glasses of firewhiskey. The trees sway eerily, closing in. It’s nearly dark and the wind slaps sharply at their faces. Credence drops to his knees, head tipped over, stomach clutched with both hands.

“Merlin’s beard, it was a _portkey._ "

“Where are we?” Credence mumbles. He doesn’t look up.

“I don't know," Graves says. "The cabin he kept me in... we may be close by.”

Without warning, he collapses. Mud seeps through the knees of his pants, cold and slick. These are his best pants, but he can't find it in him to care. Nothing matters, anyway. His head is floating up to where the trees scrape the sky: maybe from the blood loss, maybe from the shock. Maybe he’s just tired.

Credence turns and nearly falls on top of him, skinny arms around his shoulders, the cold tip of his nose pressed into his neck. “Mr Graves, I’m so sorry, how can I fix it, how—”

“We need to go,” Graves rasps. “We have to go back.”

And then he’s saying it over and over and Credence just clutches at him and cries in fearful little sobs and whimpers _please let me heal you_ and _please show me how._ Graves’ head swims, but he feels no pain. He curls and uncurls his fingers and feels every tiny bone and tendon crackle, electric. Credence is still weeping, still speaking to him, saying _I’m so sorry Mr Graves I’m so sorry for this morning I don’t know what’s wrong with me I don’t know why I did it_  andGraves tries to unbutton his shirt but his fingers are trembling too badly, so he just shakes his head and tries to blink the stars out of his eyes, says _Credence we have to go we aren’t safe we have to go…_

He tries to reach for his wand but Credence fights him for it and comes out victorious, clutching it in his muddy hand, because Graves is too tired to hold on to anything at all. Credence sets it aside and then presses Graves down onto his back. He shushes every protest. Graves feels so full of love he could die from it.

Credence unbuttons Graves’ shirt, bottom up. There's a gash on his belly that's small, relatively speaking, but gushes out blood like it wants him drained within the hour. Collateral damage. Credence’s magic is too powerful to avoid it.

“I don’t know the spell,” he murmurs, and Graves shakes his head.

“We can stitch it up later. It’s fine. I’m okay. We need to get out of here, Credence, we aren’t safe.”

Credence glares down at him. Misty white thrums in his eyes and his veins are black beneath the sheer skin of his throat. No blood running through those veins. Only darkness. Graves can’t tell what’s real and what he’s just dreaming up. His head burns with fever. Credence’s face pinches into a tiny frown and his lips move without words. Black veins pulse to the beat of his heart. Graves wonders if he's the Devil, or maybe the holy son himself, and revels in how beautifully ironic that one would be, if Mary Lou Barebone's fairy tales about Christ and Heaven came true and after all it was Credence who was sacred. And then he stops thinking about that because Credence presses his hand over the wound and everything goes quiet. Credence breathes out slowly and his eyes close, lips set in a straight line. Graves can see every bone in his body working under his skin like parts of a machine.

When he opens his eyes, he looks mildly surprised.

“Oh,” he says. Graves sits up, propped on his elbows, and braves a glance down at his belly. There’s still dried blood caked on his skin but the wound is gone. He tries to smile but then settles for grabbing Credence by the front of his shirt and kissing him like he’s dying, like it’s mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, like there’s no air left in the world than what’s in the single breath they share. They pass it back and forth like a transfusion, like they can somehow become more a part of each other than they already are.

"Here," Credence says when he finally pulls back, and gives Graves a shy little smile as he hands him his wand. "I'm sorry."

“You never cease to amaze me.” Graves shakes his head and tucks the wand into his sleeve. His legs are unsteady but they let him stand, at the very least. “Now please, let me apparate us back.”

“What happens when we go back? Am I — will I go to jail?”

“No,” Graves says firmly. “No way in Hell.”

“But I killed someone,” Credence sounds rather forlorn. He pushes the toe of his shoe against the dirt like a sheepish child, not at all like a man who just singlehandedly took down the most wanted wizard on the planet. But that's okay, they'll get to all that later.

“You should get a trophy for killing Gellert Grindelwald,” is all Graves says, and the man's name alone makes his mouth bitter. “They are not arresting you, or imprisoning you, or doing anything but congratulating you.”

“It felt awful." Credence's eyes start to well up again. “Like something was ripped out of me. It doesn’t matter that he was bad. It’s a terrible feeling.”

“I know, sweetheart. I can’t even imagine.” Graves opens his arms to allow Credence brief respite against his chest. He’s trembling like a baby bird. He must be cold, still only dressed in his casual clothes. The fabric of his shirt is so thin. “But you did what you had to do to protect yourself. To protect me. I’m so proud of you, you know that? You resisted the Imperius with no practice at all, and that takes immense power.”

“Mr Graves, did you mean it when you—”

Credence’s voice stutters to a stop, because all at once the air has gone from cool and windy to midwinter freezing. A heavy shadow falls in shades of blue over the clearing. Graves steps back but his fingers dig harder into Credence's arm. Crescent-moon imprints above his elbow. He doesn't even flinch.

Three dementors circle above them, slow and dark and deadly.

“What are those?” Credence shrinks into himself, but he can't tear his eyes away.

“Dementors,” Graves murmurs. "They guard some wizarding prisons. They're also a means of execution.”

“How do they…?”

“They suck your soul out through your mouth.”

“O-oh,” Credence whimpers, and the dementors hover lower in the air, and any trace of joy or relief Graves had held onto at Grindelwald’s death vanishes, replaced by dread that sinks in the pit of his stomach like a stone in the sea. _No_ _light. Cellar door. Grindelwald wearing his face. Credence on the living room floor. Credence’s body twisted in the electric glow of the Cruciatus curse._ When he turns to Credence, the boy is sobbing. The memories enfold him like a funeral shroud, dragging him away from the safety of Graves' grip and into the dire montage of his past. Credence has more trauma burrowed beneath his skin than anybody should. His head must be meager pickings for a Dementor — not many happy recollections to chew up.

Graves’ whole body shakes like there’s nothing warm in the world, like there never has been and there never will be again.

“Credence,” he says urgently. “I’m going to apparate us home.”

“What if we’re far away?” Credence hiccups and wipes at his eyes. “What if we’re in another country?”

Graves grimaces at the thought of accidentally leaving one of Credence’s limbs behind, but weighs the odds and decides that a missing arm is better than a missing soul. “We’re just going to have to risk it.”

He reaches out to Credence but he’s too slow.

Too slow.

Because one of the dementors descends, and everything slow motion, back to the film reel, back to a nightmarish freeze-frame that he can't move away from: the dementor's lips at Credence’s face, the boy’s body suspended, head tipped back, mouth open in a silent wail. 

The film flickers back to life and the dementor begins to drink from Credence’s mouth. Graves nearly drops his wand in his haste to pull it out, but just as he’s about to cast his patronus he stops in his tracks.

Instead of the silvery blue strands of soul that should be emerging from Credence’s throat, it’s black matter: cloudy but silky, smoke and cobwebs, tendrils and dust, black and black and black rising from Credence’s lips.

There isn’t time to think. It’s either cast the patronus and apparate them home, or risk both their lives in a last-ditch hope that this could be the cure Credence needs.

_It_ will _kill him._ _It’s not a matter of ‘if’, but a matter of ‘when’._

Newt’s voice echoes in the dome of his skull, rendering everything else meaningless. Graves lowers his wand. He chooses Credence’s life. He chooses his future. No future exists with this thing inside him, that much is certain.

It’s an awful, mesmerizing sight: Credence’s head bent back sharply, eyes closed, mouth open wide as the obscurus is drawn out by a blank-faced demon, taken into its body, so slowly that Graves is going to lose his mind if he has to watch for any longer.  _Tell me I've made the right choice. Tell me I'm not killing him._ He doesn't know who he's praying to, but he prays regardless. 

Four months ago he'd never met Credence Barebone. Four months ago the name meant nothing but a grainy photograph of a marble-eyed boy and a half-assed auror report that got shuffled aside amidst the Grindelwald case. Four months ago Graves had never held his scar-crossed hand, never kissed his clumsy mouth, never laid hands on his warm and eager body. Only four months, but he can't go back. Not now. Not ever. When he draws his wand, his hand has never been steadier.

The last of the blackness is pulled out and then it’s blue, blue and white light being sucked from Credence’s throat and Graves rears back, his mind full of _Credence. Credence in my arms, in bed in the morning, kissing him, holding him, feeding him breakfast and teaching him letters and words…_

“ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

In a flash of white-blue light his owl bursts forth, and Graves thinks in a distant part of his mind that it’s the same color as Credence’s soul. It dives at the dementor and the horrid thing sweeps away, dropping Credence to the forest floor. In a split second, Graves grabs him by the arm, the box in his other hand, and apparates them out of there, hoping against hope that they aren’t halfway across the world. He opens his eyes to see his kitchen cabinets and Credence, unsplinched but mostly unconscious, squirming slightly. Soft moans hum from his parted lips. He’s feverish, forehead shiny with sweat, face splotchy and red and stained with mud. 

Graves avoids walking by Grindelwald’s body, still undeniably dead on his living room floor, as he carries Credence to the bathroom. He folds a towel under the boy’s head, murmurs a quick _I’ll be right back,_ and then hurries out to the fireplace.

Seraphina is in her office, thank Merlin, and he struggles to get the words out fast enough.

“Gellert Grindelwald is dead. His body is on my living room floor. Please send somebody to collect it because I don’t want to look at him anymore.”

She just gapes at him. He steps back out of the fire, unlocks the front door and hurries to the bathroom. The knock comes seconds later.

“It’s open,” he calls out in a cracked voice. He won’t leave Credence alone for another second.

“Percival?” It’s Seraphina, and he doesn’t know why he’s surprised. She wont touch the body herself — she has young aurors to do the grunt work for her — but she couldn’t miss a crime scene like this.

“Take him and go,” he shouts back sharply. “I’ll come to you, I promise. Just go. Please.”

Her silence is furious, but moments later the front door clicks shut again. 

Credence tosses and turns on the floor while his mouth moves in silent mumbles. His eyebrows are knotted in pain, and Graves just wants to smooth them out. Take it away. Credence’s head tips back and he coughs, chokes, makes an awful retching sound as ink-black fluid dribbles out down his lip. The tile floor is cornflower blue. The same as the sky out the window, only the sky looks fake and flat and seems inconsequential when Credence is hurting. When Credence is dying.

When Graves was eleven, he woke one night, blistering with fever and churning with nausea. His mother took him into her arms and carried him to the bathroom like he weighed nothing at all. She cradled him while he was sick for hours, her dulcet voice repeating her favourite lullaby in warm breath against his ear.  _I see the moon, the moon sees me, shining through the leaves of the old oak tree..._  


Graves wets a cloth at the sink. The hot water scalds his hands and forces the feeling back into them with pinprick clarity. He gets Credence’s warm head in his lap and tries to keep him upright enough that he won’t choke. More black from his lips, staining his beautiful teeth. There's one that's sharper than the rest, top right, three from the center. Graves has the sudden ludicrous urge to reach out and press the pad of his finger against it until it draws blood. Credence moans softly in his lap.

“You’re okay,” Graves soothes. His voice sounds far away, like it's coming from someone else. He does his best to wipe off Credence's blackened chin.

The coughing grows more violent, and then Credence's belly clenches and his throat contracts and he heaves once, twice. Ink-black on the tile floor. Murky waters. He flips himself over, out of Graves’ lap, and props himself up on his elbows. His sobs ring in Graves' ears as he throws up more black, more pain, more dark magic. When Graves was eleven, his mother's voice carried him through every violent, stabbing ache, every backflip his stomach did inside his small and trembling body. Nobody ever sang to Credence when he was sick. When he was eleven, when he was small and those full moon eyes took up half his starved-out face, when he woke hurting and unwell, nobody was there to hold him or kiss his fevered head. Graves wants to scream.

_ Oh, let the light that shines on me shine on the one I love... _

Credence collapses. His face knocks against the bathroom floor hard and he lets out a stream of incoherent murmurs. Grave curses under his breath and turns him over onto his back again. His lips and chin are painted grey-black; his eyes are flat and unseeing. The inside of Graves' cheek bleeds when he bites into it.  _Over the mountain, over the sea, back where my heart is longing to be..._

“Don’t wanna die,” Credence whimpers, and his eyes cross when he tries to focus on Graves’ face. “Please, Mr Graves.”

“You’re not going to die,” Graves says. Grief clots in his throat and makes every word a fucking battle. “You just have to get the bad magic out, okay? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Credence. I know it doesn’t feel good. I know. You’re okay.”

His words sound meaningless and nonsensical but they seem to be at least some small comfort to Credence, who curls onto his side, head in Graves’ lap, sweaty cheek against his thigh. His lips are still moving around the shape of words that Graves can’t hear. Graves wants to keep Credence under lock and key so nobody can ever touch him again. He wants to swaddle him up like a baby and leave him on the steps of a fire station. He can't do this. He can't.

_Oh, let the light that shines on me shine on the one I love..._

Credence spits up one last time. A mouthful of ink pours out and down his chin, onto Graves’ pants, onto the blue tiles of the floor. Cornflower. Credence's skin in moonlight. No, that's more like periwinkle. Baby-blue. Baby. There are dark stains in the cracks of Credence's dry lips. He blinks up at Graves a few times.

“What — what’s…”

“You’re okay,” Graves says again. He leans down to brush his lips against the boy’s damp forehead. “We’re home, and you’re safe, and everything is going to be just fine.”

Credence wheezes softly as his eyes flutter closed. He grimaces every time he swallows. Grindelwald’s black magic can’t have a pleasant aftertaste. Graves should get some water. Something sweet. But he can't make himself get up, so they just sit there.  Credence breathes in whistling little puffs against Graves’ leg, and Graves waits to see if he has any darkness left inside to expel. It feels like an eternity before Credence speaks again.

“It’s quiet,” he says. His voice is dim and scratchy, like it’s struggling to make it’s way past his lips.

“What is?”

“It’s… it’s quiet,” Credence repeats. He hums softly and frowns. He turns onto his back and looks up at Graves. His eyes are much more  _Credence_ than they have been all day. The static in Graves' chest starts to settle. “The obscurus. I can’t feel it anymore.”

Graves doesn’t let himself celebrate just yet, but something like relief wells up in his throat.

“What feels different?”

“It was so heavy. I could feel it in… in here.” Credence presses a hand to his chest, the center of his ribcage. “It didn’t always hurt, but it was always there. Now it’s so quiet.”

When Graves starts to cry, Credence looks alarmed. “Did I say something—”

“No,” Graves whispers. “No, sweetheart. I’m so happy.”

Credence gives him a watery smile. “Thank you.”

“I’m going to run you a bath, and then we’re going to sleep for a very long time. Everything else can wait until the morning.” 

Credence nods, and with a wave of Graves’ wand, the bathtub starts to fill.

_ Oh, let the lark that sings to me sing to the one I love. _

 

——————————————

  


Mr Graves helps Credence stand up on his shaky, useless legs. His body aches from the Cruciatus curse, which he’s learned is even worse than Mr Graves had described it. His heart is still struggling to keep at bay the dread and fear that the dementor breathed into him. So much has happened in the past two hours that Credence’s head is spinning from simply trying to remember it all. Mr Graves kisses both of his cheeks and he slips back into reality, into this moment in the bathroom, his toes on the cold floor and his shirt still stained with Mr Graves' blood and whatever awful black matter he's been vomiting. Mr Graves' hands are on him, and that's all that matters.

But then he reaches for the buttons of Credence's shirt. Credence hesitates and shrinks back a little. He looks up at Mr Graves from under his eyelashes. Not once in the months they’ve spent together has he allowed Mr Graves to see him without a shirt — it’s not that he doesn’t trust him; of course he does. Mr Graves has gone inside him, and touched his most shameful places, but that’s different.

This is ugliness, and Mr Graves has seen far too much of Credence’s ugliness already.

“Credence,” Mr Graves says, and there’s such gentleness in his voice that it makes Credence want to cry.

“Yes,” he responds quietly.

“Why?” He says the word delicately, like he’s trying hard not to upset him. Credence chews on his lower lip, already dry and cracked, tasting coppery blood when he runs his tongue along the back of his teeth.

“It’s… it’s not very nice-looking,” he says, not meeting Mr Graves’ eyes. “It’s ugly. Terribly ugly.”

“What is?”

“My — my back.”

Understanding dawns on Mr Graves’ worried face and he gives Credence a comforting smile.

“What did I tell you before? You couldn't show me a single part of you that I wouldn’t find beautiful.”

“But…” Credence trails off helplessly.

“Let me,” Mr Graves whispers.

Credence nods. “Okay.”

Those hands, those beautiful hands work the buttons of his shirt one by one and let it drop open. They run up his belly and his ribs that poke out too much and his cold, pointy nipples and his hollow collarbones until they gently slide his shirt off at the shoulders. It slips off, pooling at his feet. Credence fights his instinct to pick it up, fold it carefully. It was expensive. It was a gift. But those thoughts fade out when Mr Graves  kisses his shoulders from one side to the other, and then his neck, and then behind his ear. Warmth spreads downward, and Credence's _wanting_ comes back with a ferocity that startles him. 

Mr Graves turns him around with careful hands. Credence  hears a sharp intake of breath and he wants to die.

It’s ugly, so ugly, he knows that. And he hasn’t even seen the worst of it himself — he’s seen it in fragments, bits and pieces that he's struggled to put together, to shape into a map of his own transgressions, sins tallied in silver lines on skin too young to understand. So many times he's craned his neck to look the mirror, reaching his hands back to read the shapes like some unholy braille. Raised, bloody welts become bumpy, crosshatched strokes, marking up his back like an abstract painting. Every one carries a story; the only history he's got. He remembers all of it.

“Kintsugi,” Mr Graves whispers, and two fingertips trace just to the left of Credence’s spine, the spot where he knows the worst scar lies, the one Credence had earned for his greatest rebellion: sneaking out to meet not-Mr-Graves after dark. The belt; buckle-side. A long silvery line, a knot of scar tissue at the end where the metal tore into him.

_Kintsugi._ The word sounds lovely in his voice. “What does that mean?”

“A Japanese art,” Mr Graves says softly. “A method of repair. Broken teacups and bowls would be put back together with gold lacquer filling the cracks. It didn’t only mend the damage, but it also made the object more beautiful for it.”

Credence shakes beneath Mr Graves’ hands. He doesn't have the heart to say that the cracks in him should be black, not gold.

“My beautiful boy,” Mr Graves says.

Credence lets out one choked sob before his head falls forward. Mr Graves presses his lips to the skin of his back. He kisses over the hideous scars, forces gentleness upon the violence that Credence carries around with him every day, everywhere he goes.

When he's fully undressed he shivers, arms crossed over his chest. The air is so cold that goosebumps rise on his flesh, but the bath is full and steaming. Mr Graves helps him inside. It feels so good on his aching body and he sighs as he sinks in to his neck, eyes falling closed.

When he opens them again, Mr Graves is naked, too. After all they’ve been through today, it seems rather ridiculous to blush over Mr Graves’ naked body, but he does anyway. Mr Graves gets into the bath behind him and brings Credence back against his chest, letting him settle in between his thighs. Credence pulls his legs in close to his body. He wants to be absolutely contained in this love.

And that’s what it is, isn’t it?

“Mr Graves…”

“What I said,” the man responds quietly, as though he can hear the rest of Credence’s question before he asks it. “What I said, Credence, I meant it.”

“You—?”

“Yes.” Mr Graves turns his head to kiss Credence’s cheek. His lips trace along the sharp bone, up beside his eye, back across his ear. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Credence says breathlessly. “I love you. I _love_ you.”

Mr Graves chuckles softly. “I love you, love you, love you.” Each time he says it, he plants a little kiss on Credence’s ear. “I would like to say nothing but that for the rest of my life.”

“When he put me under the Imperius curse…” Credence swallows. “How did I—?”

“It’s possible, but it’s rare. People train for that sort of thing, and some never accomplish it. What you did was amazing, Credence. It was incredible.”

“I almost killed you.”

“But you didn’t.”

Credence turns his face into Mr Graves’ chest and sniffles. His chin dips into the water. “I’m sorry I was so difficult this morning. This was all my fault. If I hadn't—”

“Nonsense,” Mr Graves says, and that's the end of that. “Would you like me to wash your hair?”

Credence pauses and then nods. He faces forward again rather reluctantly. The bottle cap pops close to his ear, and then Mr Graves’ hands are in his hair, stroking, brushing, massaging his scalp, which he hadn’t even realized was aching. He hurts in places he didn’t know could hurt. But Mr Graves’ hands feel good, and he lets his head be gently lowered into the water, tipping his face back so all of his hair is submerged, making the water bubble around him in soapy, foamy trails.

“Good boy,” Mr Graves murmurs, and it makes his whole body shiver, even in the endless warmth of the bath.

He draws a washcloth across Credence’s chest, under his arms, down to his hips. He scrubs his legs and Credence draws them up further so Mr Graves can swipe the cloth down along his calves and along the soles of his feet. He squirms at that, ticklish, and Mr Graves grins against his neck. The cloth comes up gently to his inner thighs, one soft motion between his legs, and then down lower. Credence bites down on the inside of his cheek.

He _w_ _ants_ so badly that it feels urgent now.

Mr Graves already knows. He can read Credence so easily. He kisses Credence’s neck with a persistent tenderness that makes him weak.

“Oh _,_ ” Credence says faintly as the washcloth slips away and there’s a finger between his legs instead, not going inside, just touching. Just stroking. That alone is so much, _too_ much, and he shakes and squirms and twists his head to bury his face between Mr Graves’ shoulder and neck, body contorted awkwardly, face flushing pink at how _naked_ he is. Any time he thinks about the ugly battlefield of his back he wants to shrink and hide away, but Mr Graves keeps him impossibly open. He nudges his legs apart and hooks his own ankles around Credence’s, keeping him spread wide and helpless.

“Anything you want, Credence,” he says. “Anything.”

“I want you inside me,” Credence whispers, terrified of his own forwardness and awfully embarrassed.

“Like this?” Mr Graves asks with feigned innocence. His fingertip pushes, gentle and teasing.

Credence flushes darker and shakes his head. In a surge of bravery he reaches down, searching for Mr Graves’ cock. He finds it heavy and half-hard, and he wraps his skinny fingers around it, right under the head. He guides it down between his legs and holds it there.

“Like this,” he says, breathless and waiting.

“Okay,” Mr Graves says, lips to his shoulder. “Anything you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a few notes about the dementor/obscurus thing: yes, dementors feed on happiness/good memories and yet, the obscurus is an inherently dark force. BUT. as dumbledore says in CoG, there is an element of the obscurus being the obscurial’s “only friend”. it grows in the absence of love, as a companion, as a replacement for love. so i think in the dementor’s figurative eyes, the obscurus would be the perfect thing to suck right out of there, because not only is it credence’s power and defence, but it’s also his magical companion and his original tie to the wizarding world. that may be nonsensical but whatevs it’s my fic so!!
> 
> "i see the moon" is a traditional irish lullaby. i couldn't find exactly when it originated but it fit so sweetly so i'm just going to assume the timing works out :) 
> 
> also, shoutout to every hannibal fic ever for using the concept of kintsugi cause that inspired the scene where graves sees credence's back.
> 
> i've been struggling with editing this chapter and i kind of just hate it but here it is! if you like it please let me know cause it was honestly a fucking struggle hahah and i don't want to let you guys down because you've been so encouraging throughout this story.
> 
> and thank you everyone for your comments and kind words!! i'm so sorry for leaving you on a cliffhanger in the last chapter. hopefully you're feeling better about everything, as are credence and mr graves :)
> 
>  
> 
> [here's the tumblr post for this chapter!!](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/182443264505/read-chapter-15-of-little-beast-on-ao3-credence)


	16. Chapter 16

He won’t take him in the bathtub, not for his first time. No, he wants him spread out on the angel-white sheets, wants to see every part of him with no edges to confine them. Credence’s long, thin fingers are still curled around him under the silk warmth of the water and it’s with great reluctance that Graves reaches down and eases them off.

“Let’s go to bed,” he says, low in Credence’s ear. Credence still walks in a half-limp when Graves helps him out of the tub. He looks like an injured lamb, standing crooked and wrapped in a fluffy white towel. Graves dries him with magic but leaves his hair a little damp, because it looks so sweet curling down against his rosy cheeks.

And then he carries Credence to bed. 

The boy objects weakly. He mumbles that he’s too old, too big to be cradled like a baby against Graves’ chest, but Graves pays him no mind.

“So long as I have the strength to do it,” he murmurs, “so long as my arms don’t give out and my body isn’t old and frail, I will carry you.”

At that, Credence gives in. He lets himself go limp and pliant in Graves’ arms and sighs when he’s lowered onto silky sheets. He stretches his arms out above himself. _Grindelwald. Credence on the living room floor. Crucio._ Graves wants to move Credence’s body like a doll, bend and shape him into a new position, one that doesn’t belong to Grindelwald, one that doesn't drag him back to the horror of this morning. But instead he forces the thoughts out of his head and turns his focus to the beautiful creature in front of him — who wants him, who needs him, who _loves_ him.

“I’ll be right back,” Graves whispers. He kisses Credence’s shoulder and ignores his protests when he hurries out the door and down to the living room.

The roses are scattered by the entryway, wilted and lifeless, caught in the deadly radius of Grindelwald’s magic. He could gather them together with a wave of his wand, but something about the idea feels wrong. He drops to his knees and picks the flowers up one by one, delicately, trying to keep the fragile petals together. A sudden sob wracks his body and forces his neck into a defeated curve. Credence was tortured for God knows how long, had his strongest force of power drained from him by a dementor, and had to physically expel the dark magic Grindelwald implanted in him. As if fucking _flowers_ are going to do him any good.

All the same, he carries the withered bouquet back to the bedroom where Credence lies obediently on the bed. He hasn’t moved an inch. The moonlight makes his features bloom like a painting, all blue and lustrous white.

“I got these for you,” Graves says. He sits on the edge of the bed and feels immensely foolish.

But Credence stares in awe at the pitiful flowers. He reaches out tenderly with one hand as though they’re something sacred, something he shouldn’t be allowed to touch. “You got me roses?"  
  
By all logic, Graves shouldn’t have any tears left in him at this point, but still he finds himself blinking them back. He waves a hand over the petals and slowly they unfurl, dead brown blossoming into deep red. Credence props himself up on his hands to watch. He appears entirely unconcerned with his own nakedness. It’s lovely.

“Nobody’s ever given me flowers before,” Credence says, and then he looks up with a little smirk and adds: “Obviously.”

“Not obvious,” Graves says. “I’m immensely lucky to be the first.”

“Thank you,” Credence whispers. Graves presses one rose into his hand and Credence holds it as if it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He lets himself be lowered back down onto the sheets by Graves’ gentle hand. He toys with the petals while Graves takes off his robe and moves to kneel between the boy’s spread legs. 

He peels a petal from one rose and strokes it across Credence’s collarbone, then his shoulder, then his nipple. Credence smiles serenely and closes his eyes. He does look like a painting, he _should_ be a painting. Graves should hire someone to paint him, the most prestigious artist he can find. Wall sized, a mural, right in his living room. Let everyone who passes through the door see what beauty he’s found in this awful world.

He runs the petal along Credence’s lips, traces it across the sharp line of his cheek bone, and then tucks it into his hair. It stands out bright and vibrant against the dark, half-damp curls spread out on the pillow.

“Mr Graves,” Credence says softly. His body wriggles impatiently. “Want…”

“What do you want?” Graves encourages.

“Want…” Credence trails off into a frustrated little sigh. “You know.”

“I want you to say it.” Graves’ fingertips come up to tickle across the soft skin of Credence’s hips. “I want you to be sure.”

He wants nothing more than to hear Credence’s sweet voice say filthy things, but he needs some guidance, some gentle pressure if they’re going to get to that point. Credence’s cock is growing hard where it lays against his belly, and the boy squirms whenever Graves' fingertips go near it. Graves laughs softly.

“Sweet boy. Be patient.”

Credence hums and settles himself. The evening lights of the city come in hazy through the sheer curtains, and every time the traffic lights change a new hue is cast over his delicate features. Now it’s red, rose-petal red, Valentine red, like the lipstick on the poster-girls in the city. It would look lovely on Credence’s lips, already so plush and full. The boy gives him a questioning look when he traces the lower one with his thumb. Mulberry, strawberry, something bright and striking. He doesn’t say these things out loud. Credence smiles and his eyes crinkle up, black and shining like little stars in his perfect head. Graves wants to bury himself inside of Credence and stay there forever.

But this is all so new to him. Graves has to be careful.

Anyway, they have time now, more time than they've ever had. Grindelwald is dead, and the obscurus is gone, and nobody will hurt Credence. Never again. MACUSA can wait, Picquery can wait, Tina and Newt can wait, all of the world can wait. There is nothing urgent or important or pressing. The only things that matter are here, between these walls, between these sheets and blankets, between these legs where Graves wants to prostrate himself in worship. 

His hands move up to Credence’s shoulders to massage the tense muscles before they trail down his chest, thumbs circling over pink, pebbled nipples, the bumpy ladder of his ribs, his concave belly, the thin trail of hair at his navel. Credence is very still as Graves explores his body. He leaves no patch of skin untouched, except for the boy’s poor, desperate cock, which is steadily leaking against his hipbone, leaving a string of pearlescent fluid from the tip to the protruding bone every time it pulses upward.

He’s endlessly patient. He suffers so beautifully and stays quiet and obedient while Graves teases him. Graves cups his balls, squeezes gently, and Credence’s breath leaves his lungs in one sweet puff.

When Graves finally leans in to kiss him, Credence immediately lifts his head from the pillow to meet him, hungry and needy, opening his mouth let him in. Graves licks the insides of Credence’s lips and sucks on the tip of his tongue. Credence practically _mewls_.

Up until this point, he’s effectively ignored his own persistent hardness, but the way Credence is panting, soft and lovely in blissful exhaustion, makes him all too aware of it. He plants one last warm, wet kiss on Credence’s mouth and then sits back on his heels. The traffic lights change and now Credence is green, all green, ocean-water and juniper, a beacon of light saying _yes yes yes._

“Please, Mr Graves,” Credence says. “I want— want you to touch me. My… touch my—”

“Your cock?” Graves says in a low voice, and his hand finally slides up to grip Credence’s throbbing cock around the base, not moving yet, just holding. 

“Mhm,” Credence nods frantically. “ _Please._ ”

Graves hums low in his throat and puts considerable effort into holding himself back. He could shatter Credence into a million pieces with his devastating love. He runs his thumb along the underside of his cock and Credence sobs.

“I don’t want you to come yet,” Graves tells him. He lets him go and gives him a somewhat patronizing pat on his skinny hip. Credence whines and gasps. His body twists and Graves grabs his thighs to still him. “Sweetheart. Can you be good for me?”

Credence nods deliriously. His head falls back onto the pillows in defeat. Graves stretches so as not to have to leave his comfortable spot between Credence’s spread legs when he reaches for the bottle on the bedside table. He squeezes a generous amount of lubricant onto his hand and runs it down between Credence’s legs, watching the boy’s face carefully as his fingers trace over the tightly clenched opening. Credence bucks and whimpers and Graves rubs slow circles over the spot. He feels the boy rhythmically tense and relax, as though his body is still undecided on whether or not it wants Graves inside of it.

Credence himself is far more certain on the matter. He grasps for Graves’ face and pets clumsily at his cheeks.

“Kiss me."

Graves does. All the hunger and love and worry and grief swirls together into a maelstrom of need. He could swallow Credence whole. He lets their lips part, to Credence’s dismay, and cradles his jaw in one hand. He still sees phantom traces of black veins under his skin, of the vacancy in his eyes when Grindelwald tortured him. He knows it isn’t real, but it shakes him all the same.

“Does anything hurt?”

“Everything,” Credence whispers. “But please don’t stop.”

He wants to cry but he holds himself together and kisses the boy again. Carefully, he pushes one finger into him. Credence gasps and arches, his breath sweet and hot against Graves’ lips.

“More,” he shudders. “Please.”

“So impatient,” Graves marvels. “So greedy, my lovely boy.”

Credence just makes a desperate sound and tries to wriggle his ass down further on Graves’ finger. Graves laughs quietly and pushes in all the way, curling up, delighting as Credence’s voice rises.

“More,” he gasps again. 

A low moan emerges from Graves’ throat as he slides a second finger in. He watches the boy open for him, watches Credence’s arched back and flat, white belly and kissed-red mouth as he struggles to stay still, to not flail and squirm beneath him.

“ _Oh,_ ” Graves says, voice breathless in awe. “You like that, don't you, baby.”

“Yes—”

A thrust; a rough upward curl.

“Say it.”

“I— I like it—”

Graves taps a third finger against the sensitive skin above Credence’s hole. “You still want more?”

“Please, Mr Graves, I — _nnnh._ ”

His two fingers slide out halfway and he presses a third against the rim, starting to push inside.

“R-red, no, red,” Credence gasps and thrashes beneath him and immediately Graves pulls his fingers out. He winces at the sudden movement and Graves rubs his hip to soothe him.

“Sorry,” he stammers. “Just — just too much.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad you said so.” Graves leans in and kisses Credence’s cheek, his eyebrow, the corner of his lips. “Do you want to stop for tonight?”

He shakes his head violently. “No, _please_ , just — only two. Is that okay?”

Graves takes his time to make Credence comfortable again, giving him gentle kisses and stroking his cock slow and languid until he thinks the boy might come. And then he lets go and starts to circle his two slick fingers at Credence’s entrance once more, slowly pushing in deep. “Is that good?”

Credence just whimpers in response. Graves rubs his soft insides and cherishes every sound, every expression and movement that his boy gifts to him.

“I want to be inside of you, Credence.”

“Please,” Credence gasps, eyes rolling. “I want — I want it…”

Graves falls back on his heels and pulls his fingers out. Credence deflates. He breathes through his mouth and watches Graves through hooded eyes. A cheeky little smirk dances across his lips and he spreads his legs further. The wantonness drives Graves half-mad. The red flush between his cheeks, the wetness dripping down. Open, exposed and vulnerable, begging to be filled.

He guides the head of his cock to Credence’s hole and sucks in a breath as he pushes inside.

 

——————————————

 

Credence cries out softly as Mr Graves’ cock pushes into him. His body struggles to stretch and accommodate it. It’s different than the fingers — softer, but bigger: not just the size, but the _weight._ Mr Graves feels heavy inside of him. He so easily fills the space where the obscurus used to be.

“Green, yellow, or red,” Mr Graves rumbles, sweat beading on his flushed forehead, lips parted with effort. _The effort of holding back._ _The effort of stopping himself from pushing in all the way, from filling me, from ruining me_. Credence fixes his eyes on the ceiling and winces. _Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t come._

“Green,” he says, and his voice trembles pathetically. “Please keep going.” 

Mr Graves drops onto his elbows, framing Credence’s head against the silky sheets. Their foreheads press together as he slides in deeper, slowly, inch by burning inch, splitting him open, rearranging his insides to make room for himself.

It feels neverending; Mr Graves is so big, he just keeps pushing and pushing and it seems like an eternity before he bottoms out. His cock is so deep inside of him that Credence feels dizzy.

“Oh, I can feel it…” Credence says faintly, pressing a hand against the flat of his belly, “in here.”

“Credence,” Mr Graves says, and he laughs, shakes his head. “Merlin help me, my sweet boy.”

Credence doesn’t know what he did that’s so funny, so he doesn’t say anything — he just bends his knees and draws his legs up, and the change in position pulls Mr Graves’ cock impossibly deeper. His head is filled with cotton, static, like the physical is so overwhelming that his mind is shutting down.

“Please fuck me, Mr Graves.”

“Oh, you little monster. You little beast.”

Mr Graves kisses him, brutal and soft all at once, devouring him, lips on lips, tongue on tongue, and then he bites down on Credence’s bottom lip, almost tender with his cruelty. Credence moans, loud and uninhibited, and Mr Graves starts to move inside of him.

Too slow. Static. White noise. _Harder. Harder._ He can’t make his voice work. He snakes his hand down to stroke himself but Mr Graves pins his wrists to the bed.

“You’ll come on my cock,” he growls with an unfamiliar viciousness. “Or not at all.”

“Yes, sir,” Credence breathes. His eyes rolls back as the man angles up, driving his cock into that place inside of him that makes him burn with pleasure. “Yes, Mr Graves.”

Mr Graves keeps him pinned like a specimen and fucks him into the mattress. Credence can’t see. He can’t breathe. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to focus on anything but Mr Graves being with him, on him, _inside_ him. And then his hands grab at the man’s neck and his legs wrap around his back and Mr Graves takes him behind the knees and pushes his legs over his shoulders, folds him nearly in half, and the penetration is so deep Credence swears he’s going to fall apart at the seams. He thanks the heavens that the obscurus is no longer inside of him, because he would never have been able to keep it from crawling out his throat.

Mr Graves gets his hand around Credence’s cock and it’s almost frightening the way Credence wants him. The way this man takes up every bit of space inside of him. There’s no God left in his heart, not with Mr Graves there.

Credence comes.

He cries out as his cock jumps and releases across his chest, all the way up to his neck, and then Mr Graves is running his thumb through it and pushing it past Credence’s lips, into his mouth, making him taste himself, and it’s so _filthy_ it makes Credence blush but he loves it, loves it, loves it so much. He sucks Mr Graves’ thumb clean, rolls his tongue over the digit, and then his world turns briefly upside down as Mr Graves grabs him rough by the hips and flips him onto his belly.

He yanks Credence’s ass up into the air, back down, face pushed into the pillows, exposed and helpless — he knows he’s gaping, he can feel his body trying to close up but before it can, before he can even begin to feel embarrassed, Mr Graves pushes into him again. All the way, all at once, holding Credence’s hips and fucking him so hard his head is driven into the mattress. He sobs and reaches down, wraps his skinny fingers around his cock and jerks himself off gracelessly, desperate to come again.

“Credence,” Mr Graves chokes out, and his voice barely breaks through the static symphony in Credence’s head. Mr Graves stills above him, a God, an entire world, and Credence can feel his cock pulsing inside him, coming in him, giving that to him. A gift. It’s sacred. It’s absolution. He wants to reach back and hold Mr Graves there, not let him leave, not let him ever pull out.

Credence comes again, a whimpering mess, awkward and sticky against the sheets. The obscurus used to eat up everything, blend every feeling into a roiling, burning haze. Having this — having an _orgasm_ without it is unbearably human. Every moment he expects to be swept away, to be shattered into a million tiny, smoky pieces, but he just isn’t. He feels every bead of sweat, every brush of skin on skin, every muscle clenching and relaxing. He’s so grounded in reality that it almost hurts.

No longer held up by Mr Graves’ strong hands, Credence collapses. Breathing is difficult, and so is looking at Mr Graves. Credence doesn’t know much about anything, but he knows that what they just shared is vulnerable and _intimate_ and he’s terrified he’ll say the wrong thing. But Mr Graves takes his face in his hands and makes him look. 

“I love you,” he whispers.

Credence’s smile is only a little bit shaky. “I love you too.”

He pulls his body in even tighter. He wants to become nothing but a tiny ball of warmth in Mr Graves’ arms. He still aches from the power of Grindelwald’s curses. Nothing has ever made him feel so much like he was in his own body, _with_ his own body, every single paralyzed angle of it. Every inch of skin and desperate bone, every muscle that seized up and begged to be relaxed. Some parts are still tense, some still burning. He asks Mr Graves if that’s normal.

“Certainly,” he assures him. “Curse damage is a very real thing, but it’ll probably go away soon since the torture wasn’t long term.” He pauses. “How… how long _was_ it?”

Credence shifts so he can tilt his head up and look at him. “Not too long.”

Hours. Credence counted every minute of it, every second. The breaths in between. An endless electric nightmare, the press of Grindelwald’s wingtip shoe in the tender place below his ribs, the gunmetal blue hum of his voice surrounding him like smoke. Every aching heartbeat spanning for lifetimes until Mr Graves came home.

But he doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to worry. When Mr Graves sighs with relief, it makes all of it okay.

“I’m so sorry, Credence."

“Don’t be sorry. I wanted to ask you something.”

“Of course, anything.”

“In the forest, when the dementors came after us… what was that thing you made? The spell that scared them off?”

Mr Graves smiles. “That was my patronus. I’d been meaning to teach you.”

“Patronus?” Credence’s fingertips walk across the sheets to meet Mr Graves’ own and loosely intertwine their hands. “What’s that?”

“It’s a defensive charm, basically a manifestation of every happy thought or memory you can draw from. It feeds on everything opposite what a dementor feeds from — light and happiness and love. You’re supposed to envision the happiest thoughts you have to make it work. When it’s done right it takes the form of an animal, different for each person. It’s not an easy spell to cast, it takes years of practice. Although,” he muses, and draws Credence’s hand up to his face to kiss his palm. “I’m sure you could do it right now, you little marvel.”

Credence’s face takes on a bashful flush. “What’s your animal? It looked like a bird.”

“An owl. Intuition and wisdom and all of that.” Mr Graves sighs. “Seems rather ironic, considering I was snatched from a damned park by Gellert Grindelwald.”

“I think you’re very wise.” Credence smirks and runs his fingertips along Mr Graves’ lips. “What did you think about tonight? To make it come out?”

“You,” Mr Graves answers honestly, and then captures Credence’s hand for another kiss.

Credence turns onto his back and tips his head down to look at his own chest. He frames the scar with his hands. It’s just a plain scar now, silvery-pink like the others, no dark magic left to color it bright red or venom-black. It doesn’t stir beneath his skin anymore.

“Can you use magic to get rid of it?”

Mr Graves’ hand ghosts over where the skin was branded. “I don’t know. I might be able to make it fade a little bit, but scars caused by dark magic are… well, they’re different. Harder to get rid of.”

“Oh,” Credence says, and he must wear his disappointment clearly on his face because Mr Graves’ dubious expression turns to something more resolute.

“I can certainly try,” he says. 

 

——————————————

  
  


Being an auror means collecting quite an impressive amount of scars, most of which Graves has managed to clear away by use of magic and potions. None of those scars, however, were crafted by anyone of Gellert Grindelwald’s prowess. He drags his hand across the brand, back and forth, murmuring incantations. When nothing happens, he even fumbles for his wand, which has fallen from the bedside table to the floor, though that proves to be useless as well.

His hand comes to rest on Credence’s chest, over his heart. He feels the eager rhythm, soft against the ribcage, and feels so very grateful to be alive.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t think I can do it.”

Credence’s head falls back onto the pillow, turned sideways, gazing at the window where honey-gold light comes in to cradle his soft face. Then the lights change, and it’s back to red. Credence blinks.

“Oh,” he says.

They stay there for a moment: Credence stares in quiet contemplation at the window and Graves keeps his hand protectively over the boy’s heart. After a while, Graves taps two fingers over his fluttering heartbeat.

“I’m grateful for this,” he says.

“For what?”

“For your heart. For all your organs, really, for keeping you healthy and alive.”

Credence gives him an amused little smile. “That’s a funny thing to say.”

“I suppose it is.” Graves drops his lips down to kiss over the scar. “You know, it isn’t so terrible. And it may fade more than this.”

Credence sits up a little higher, still lax against the cloud of pillows. “What if you did something else over it?”

Graves props himself up on one elbow. “What do you mean?”

Absently, Credence’s hand moves down to trace over the shape: triangle, circle, line. A symbol of the selfishness and greed of fools. The opposite of everything Graves loves about Credence.

“If you made another scar over top, so it looked different. So it doesn’t remind us of him _._ ”

“It would hurt, sweetheart.”

“I know.”

“What would you want it to be?” He tells himself he isn’t seriously considering this. He’s just playing along, preparing to gently let him down. But if it’s really what Credence wants…

Credence hums in consideration. “How about the owl?”

Graves feels a little hitch in his breath. “What, my patronus?”

Turning to face him again, Credence nods. “Could you make it look just like that? I don’t want it to be any owl. I want it to be your owl.”

Graves closes his eyes and knows that there isn’t a single thing Credence could ask him for that he wouldn’t come running to provide.

He knows a bit about burning spells, a bit about illustration spells, and much more about transfiguration. A combination of all three should do the trick, but he’ll have to be careful — a botched job could make the whole mess of it even worse.

“Are you sure you trust me to do this?”

“Yes,” Credence breathes. “Please.”

He spreads his arms and bares his chest further. His eyes flutter closed. How easily and gracefully he prepares himself for pain makes Graves weak.

Drawing his wand, Graves brings to mind a clear image of his patronus. A great horned owl, a rather mean looking thing, but one he’s memorized to keep it powerful throughout the years. He thanks his auror training once again and lets his wand hover over the mark on Credence’s chest. If there was a spell to make this painless, he would do it in an instant — but no such luck.

Credence sucks in a breath and holds it as Graves’ wand begins to move. Burning red welts rise up over the already scarred skin and Graves winces in sympathy as Credence’s mouth drops open, letting out little _a-ah…_ sounds as he screws his eyes shut. He does his best to keep still. Graves moves his free hand to the boy’s hair and pets through it soothingly, one thumb rubbing behind Credence’s ear.

“Almost done,” he whispers, as he sees the image of the owl begin to become apparent where the deathly hallows symbol used to burn bright. 

When he’s finished, he draws back and studies the image before him. He did a pretty good job, if he does say so himself — the owl is strong and beautiful and blood-red against Credence’s pale skin. The symbol beneath it is still there, but faded, and it looks feeble beneath the new scar.

“Thank you,” Credence says, his voice breathy and weak.

The best Graves can do is cast a light numbing spell over the wound, at which Credence’s shoulders relax considerably. 

“It’s… well.” Graves tilts his head and watches as the outline begins to settle into a bright, raw scar. “It’s very beautiful.”

“It’s you,” Credence smiles and lifts his head up, asking wordlessly to be kissed. Graves holds the back of his head and slots their mouths together, making it deep and warm and possessive. Credence shudders, and then winces when Graves’ arm brushes the fresh burn.

“Merlin, damnit, I’m sorry.”

“’S’okay.” Credence yawns and stretches lazily. “What time is it?”

Graves cranes his neck and squints at the clock on the bedside table. “Nearly midnight. We should get some sleep — as much as I’d like to avoid it entirely, we do have to go see Picquery tomorrow.”

“Mr Graves, if she…”

“She won’t hurt you. Not a chance.”

“But if she wants to put me in prison—”

“Then I’ll snatch you up and apparate us out of there faster than you can say _avada kedavra._ ”

Credence smacks him on the chest and Graves laughs. He opens his arms so that Credence can crawl into them, tucked away at his side, ear pressed to his chest, still damp with sweat. He traces circles along Credence’s arm, and then his hip.

He loves Credence so much his heart could split in two. It just might, he thinks, so long as the boy keeps getting himself into so much trouble. Graves may find himself at the ends of the earth to protect him, but that might be just fine, because nothing else matters, really. He has been the first and only to kiss Credence Barebone. He’s been inside of him; he’s touched his softest parts. The quiet of the night settles over them and feels alien after such a catastrophic day. Graves can almost hear Credence’s eyelids as they blink.

“I love you,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything you did today.”

Credence laughs softly. “I laid on the floor and puked. You took care of me.”

“You killed Gellert Grindelwald, and you healed my open wound without any prior knowledge, and you survived a dementor. Oh,” he leans in closer to Credence’s ear, lips brushing the shell of it. “And you took my cock like a little champion.”

“ _Mr Graves_!” Credence squeaks, his hands coming up to push him away or pull him closer, Graves isn’t sure. He smirks.

“I think you like calling me that,” he says. “I think it gets you going.”

“So what if it does,” Credence says, blushing furiously. “I want to go to sleep now.”

Graves lets him bury his heated face in his chest and traces shapes into his back with the tips of his fingers. “I love you,” he says again, and he knows in this moment that he’ll never get tired of saying it.

Credence smiles against his collarbone. “I know you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe there's only one chapter left! thank you everyone for your feedback and comments and kudos, i loooove you all. i hope you like all this smut and sweetness!
> 
> i did a lil sketch of credence's ~new scar~ so i'll try to take a photo and post it with the last chapter!
> 
>  
> 
> [here's the tumblr post for this one!](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/182517884635/read-chapter-16-of-little-beast-on-ao3-credence)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i almost split this up into two chapters because it's almost 10k words but like... it felt like it all had to be part of the ending. you know? anyway i'm so sorry for this way-too-long rollercoaster of a chapter
> 
> thank you all for sticking with me <3

Credence’s palm is damp against Graves’ own as they pass through the doorway and into the MACUSA building. His eyes dart around the room, practically rolling like marbles in his skull. Graves doesn’t miss the way they widen and fix on the fifty-foot portrait of Seraphina that looms menacingly over the whole building. He squeezes Credence’s hand and rubs his thumb over the bumps of his knuckles. It does nothing to quell the boy’s nerves.

“You’re a hero,” Graves reminds him, keeping his voice very low. “Not a criminal.”

Credence makes a noncommittal sound in response. He drags his feet, almost cartoonishly sullen. Graves tugs at his hand a little and then lets it go. “Are you giving me the silent treatment?”

“No!” Credence says, aghast. “I’m just scared.”

“Nothing to be scared of.” Graves leads Credence into the elevator and nods to Red. “The office of President Picquery, please.”

Red cranks a lever and nods to Graves, and then Credence. Credence nods back politely and then averts his eyes. His hand searches for Graves’ again. However much he’d like to, Graves doesn’t allow it. 

“Later,” he murmurs, and Credence looks rather forlorn, so he adds, “You look very handsome, sweetheart.”

He’s dressed up in his best suit, dark and pinstriped and fitted to his long, slender body, a silk tie nestled beneath his collar. Percy tamed and combed his hair back with grease. It still sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the no-maj hairstyles, but Graves secretly hopes he won’t want to cut it too short again, because he loves it as it is — shiny and thick, the waves only just beginning to tickle the nape of his neck and sweep over his eyes.

Credence had wanted to look his best, terrified to meet the president and even more terrified for the outcome of the meeting. He keeps mumbling _yeah, but what if I go to jail?_ and nothing Graves says manages to convince him that won't happen. 

All morning he puttered around anxiously, to the point where Graves was ready to lock him in a room by himself until it was time to go. He woke before sunrise, impatient and jumpy, constantly checking the time like he was willing the event closer just to get it over with. He flinched violently when Graves put a hand on his shoulder at the breakfast table.

“Credence,” Graves said gently. "You need to calm down. We aren’t going in until we’re good and ready.”

“I’m ready.” Credence’s response was too quick.

“Well, I’m not. Does your body still hurt?”

Reluctantly, Credence nodded, and so Graves took him back to bed and undressed him. He massaged his back and his legs and his shoulders and let the boy’s tense and jittery body settle down under the firm press of his hands. The Cruciatus curse leaves you aching for days, Graves knows that. He gave special attention to Credence’s hands, rubbing his palms with the soft lotion he likes, working the tight muscles loose until Credence squirmed and grew pink in the face. Then Graves stroked him off slowly until he shuddered out an orgasm into his hand. Anything to calm him down a bit.

The tension he so lovingly worked out of Credence’s body is back in tenfold now. He has to keep reaching over and gently pushing the boy’s shoulders down from where they spring up to chin-level. Credence picks at the tender skin around his fingernails until it bleeds. Graves gives his hand a smack.

"Cut it out," he whispers in the quiet of the hallway. "You're hurting yourself."

Seraphina is in her office when they arrive, and she calls for Graves to enter before he even lifts his hand to knock. Credence trails directly behind him as though he’s trying to hide entirely in his shadow.

“Hello, Percival.” She tilts her head and her eyes glint with amusement. “And hello, Credence.”

“Hi,” Credence says softly. He steps shyly out from behind Graves. His hands tremble where they’re held behind his back.

“Sit,” Seraphina says, gesturing to the chairs in front of her desk. They do. Credence’s leg shakes silently up and down and he clutches the arms of his chair as though he’s afraid he might fly out of it. “It seems we have quite a bit to catch up on.”

“Grindelwald is dead,” Graves says plainly. “I thought you might be more eager to celebrate.”

Seraphina pauses. “Yes, indeed,” she says finally. “Credence, you made use of one of the Unforgiveable Curses to kill Gellert Grindelwald. Is that correct?”

Credence’s eyes widen. “Yes, ma’am.”

“The use of an Unforgiveable Curse is strictly against the law,” she says to Graves, as though he might have forgotten.

“It was self defence,” Graves says impatiently. “Grindelwald used both Crucio _and_ Imperius on him, and I’m sure he would have completed the trifecta without a second thought. Merlin, Seraphina, give it a rest. Say congratulations and let us go home.”

She smiles at him, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m going to have to do a fair amount of explaining and excusing in order to keep Credence out of prison.”

“Then do it.” He doesn’t break their gaze.

She makes a short sound that’s almost a laugh. “Percival, you are tenacious. I’ll give you that.” She turns to Credence again, her smile slightly warmer. “Did Mr Graves teach you that spell?”

Credence turns to Graves, a little panicked. Graves shakes his head in disbelief.

“Stop interrogating him. Of course I told him about the curses, but it’s not like we practiced them. He was in a moment of great distress and it was his only choice. He was saving his own life, and mine. And probably several hundred more, given Grindelwald’s casualty rate.”

She nods curtly and shuffles some papers together on her desk. “Credence, congratulations. You did take down the most wanted wizard on the planet, and for that I am grateful. There are several other matters we must discuss, however.”

“He needs a wand,” Graves says. “The one I got for him broke when he used the curse. He should really have a government-appointed tutor, as well, because I’m not cut out for teaching.”

Seraphina gives him a wry smile. “I’m going to do my very best to ignore the fact that you illegally purchased a wand for an unlicensed wizard who was wanted for murder at the time.”

Graves watches Credence’s hopeful face fall. His mouth turns down in a silent grimace and he deflates in his chair. Graves reaches a hand out and places it delicately over Credence’s.

“I would like to request immunity for Credence regarding his previous transgressions, due to the fact that he took down a criminal that nobody in this government managed to.”

Seraphina arches one eyebrow. “Would you, now.”

“I didn’t mean to do it,” Credence blurts, and then he withers in his seat when her gaze turns to him. “The other times. It was the obscurus, and I couldn’t control it, but it’s… it’s gone now.”

“Gone?” She looks back to Graves.

“Gone,” he repeats. “A dementor sucked it out of him.”

“A _dementor?_ ” She lets out a long-suffering sigh, hands at her temples. “Percival, I don’t even know where to begin. When on earth were you anywhere near a dementor? Is there anything else I need to know?”

It takes Graves a while to get the story out. By the time he does, her forehead is pinched into an incredulous frown.

“It’s gone,” he finishes. “I watched it happen. The thing just… ate it up.”

“I didn’t know that was possible,” Seraphina admits.

Graves shrugs. “Me neither.”

She turns to the papers on her desk. She scribbles out her signature on a few lines and then hands a page over to Credence. “Your wand license.”

“Thank you,” he says.

“The portkey.” She taps her pen against the desk. “Where is it now?”

“I brought it back when we apparated, but I haven’t touched it again. I’m not sure if it’s still active. I was hoping you could clear it for us, because…” Graves glances at Credence and clears his throat. “Um. We would like to have it.”

Seraphina gives him a strange look but nods. “I’ll come by this evening and remove the charm. I can appoint a tutor for Credence, as well. Also…” She pauses and reaches for an envelope on the desk. “Five hundred dragots. The first instalment of your reward.”

Credence’s eyes widen. “Reward?”

“There was a high price on Gellert Grindelwald’s head, whether or not you were aware of it. This should help your transition into the wizarding community. I would recommend you open an account with our bank.”

“Oh,” Credence says faintly. “What’s a dragot?”

“It’s like two dollars in your money,” Graves tells him. “You can only use it in wizarding shops though.”

Again, “oh.” And then: “Mr Graves, I’m sorry, how much is this in normal money?”

Graves and Seraphina exchange a little smile at the term _normal money_. 

“Two times five hundred is one thousand,” he says. “So it’s like one thousand dollars.”

Credence looks like he might pass out right then and there. Graves puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. 

“In total, you’ll receive five thousand dragots,” Seraphina says. “Which makes ten thousand dollars. Percival thought it would be best that it’s given to you over time, like an allowance. It will help with your transition into the community.”

“Five thousand?” Credence cries, and he almost sounds upset. “I can’t — I can’t _accept_ that…”

“Yes, you can,” Graves says firmly. “You know I’ll always take care of you, but it’s good to have some savings of your own. After what you’ve been through, this is the least they can do.”

Seraphina sighs pointedly.

“Is that all?” Graves is already halfway out of his seat. Credence looks to him for instruction. Seraphina looks like there’s much more she’d like to say, but she abstains.

“I suppose it is,” she says at length. “I’ve moved your office to the fourth floor. D28. I’ll give you the key now, if you’d like to go take a look.”

“The one with the window,” Graves gives her a small but knowing smile.

“Yes.” She slides a key across the desk. “The one with the window.”

 

The window is huge. It spans nearly the entire wall, endless mountains and a powdery blue sky just beyond the frame. Credence’s eyes widen and then narrow when they walk in, and immediately he crosses the room and presses his hands to the glass.

“Magic?” He murmurs.

Graves nods and joins him at the window. When Credence takes his hands away, there are greasy little fingerprints on the glass. Graves thinks it’s particularly adorable and would love to leave them there forever, but Credence blushes and waves his hand over the offending spot. The prints disappear, and Graves sighs and wraps his arms around the boy.

“I’m very proud of you,” He says into Credence’s hair. “Look at you, a registered wizard.”

Credence pulls his head back so he can look at him, though he goes rather crosseyed in doing so. “Will you kiss me?”

Graves cups the side of his face and tilts his head, letting his breath ghost over Credence's lips for a moment before he stops teasing and kisses him. It's slow and sweet, a stark contrast to the frenzied desperation of last night. Then, it was end-of-the-world intensity, as if nothing would ever be the same again and all they could do was preserve the moment they were in. Hungry and needy and so, so in love.

Now, they take their time exploring and feeling. Credence’s tongue pokes out to search for Graves’; Graves licks along the inside of Credence’s lower lip and makes him shiver in his arms. He tastes like tea and jam from this morning’s breakfast.

Graves grabs him by his skinny hips and pushes him up against the desk, where all his belongings are laid out just as they’ve always been — that is, until Credence is thrust onto the surface and everything goes flying. Files, books, pencils, that damned lunascope from Scamander. 

_Doesn’t matter doesn’t matter,_ Graves mutters when Credence makes a soft sound of concern. He pulls Credence’s legs up to wrap around his waist, kissing him harder and deeper, one hand snaking down to rub at him through his pants. Credence moans quietly into his mouth, already hard, and Graves unzips his pants so roughly that for a moment he worries he’s busted the zipper.

“President Picquery called you Percival,” Credence manages to get out in a brief moment when they part for air, casual, as though Graves isn’t currently feeling him up in his government office. “Do most people call you that?”

Graves grins against his mouth. “She’s a close acquaintance. Most people call me Graves, or Director Graves. Because most people I talk to are my inferiors.”

Credence pulls back and frowns. “Don’t call people your _inferiors_. I hate that.”

Hands held up defensively, Graves laughs. “They work under me. It’s a technicality.”

Credence kisses him again, bruising and hungry. “Newt calls you Percival, too.”

“Do you mind if we don’t talk about Newt while I have my hand down your pants?” Graves squeezes Credence through his underpants to emphasize his point.

The giggle that Credence lets out makes Graves not mind so much the way he’s being interrogated. “So you let Newt call you Percival because he doesn’t work for you? But I call you Mr Graves.”

“I told you that you don’t have to call me that.”

“But I _like_ it.”

“Then what seems to be the problem?” Graves’ hand slips into Credence’s underpants and he rubs his thumb across the slick head of his cock.

“Nngh, I forget,” Credence mumbles. He tries to push his hips further into Graves’ hand, strawberry lips brushing wetly across Graves’ cheek. “Take me home?”

“Here. Let me fuck you in here.”

Credence stills and gives him a strange look. “What if someone…”

Graves shakes his head and then waves his hand at the window. The bright mountainscape vanishes and in its place blooms a dark sky scattered with stars and streaks of coloured light like an unfinished canvas.

“Have you ever seen the Northern Lights?” He murmurs, kissing Credence’s jaw, and then his ear, and then his neck. The boy shakes his head, mute, and stares out the window through half-closed eyes. He seems entirely unable to process anything at all, and Graves’ hand is slowly getting stickier where it moves sinfully in Credence’s pants. 

He flips him over with both hands on his hips, keeping him steady. Credence bends over the desk like a natural, shameless, and lets Graves tug his pants down to his knees. His underpants follow, and then Graves is presented with the absolutely delightful sight of Credence’s bare ass on his desk, perhaps the best sight to ever grace his office. 

_New office,_ he reminds himself, though everything mostly looks the same. _A sacrilegious baptism for my new workplace._

Graves bends over Credence so that he can kiss the nape of his neck. He squeezes a handful of the boy’s ass, which is surprisingly round and plush for such a skinny little thing.

“Still sore from last night?” He murmurs. He silently conjures slick onto his fingers and circles one around Credence’s opening. It flutters at his touch and Credence’s whole body twitches.

“Just a little,” he gasps against the cherry-wood desktop. “S’okay.”

Graves sinks one finger into him, deep, and the whine it draws from Credence is desperately lovely. He casts a quick silencing charm and then curls, pressing against his prostate, relishing the little squeaks Credence makes and the way he tries to turn his head, lips searching for Graves’, wanting, _needing_ to be kissed. Credence’s needs are so simple and so sweet, and Graves wants nothing more than to fulfill every single one of them.

A second finger, along with the first. His lips pressed onto Credence’s. Every time the boy clenches around his fingers he feels it in a surge to his cock, every twitch, every whimper. He wants to fuck him, but he also wants to finger him until he comes, because Credence takes it so well. Both digits curl and he arches his back, moaning, cheek pressed to the wood, and there’ll likely be a sweaty imprint there later which Graves has every intention of leaving.

He’s already aching and hard when he frees his own cock, conjuring more lubrication as he pushes the tip up to Credence’s hole. The boy whimpers and goes very still, breath baited, waiting.

“Breathe, darling,” Graves murmurs. He rubs Credence's back with his free hand while his cock pulses against his opening. “I’m not going to do this unless you’re breathing.”

Credence closes his eyes and lets out a shuddery breath. Graves slips inside.

“O-oh—”  
  
“Okay?”  
  
“Yes, I—”

“Shh.” Graves looms over him, elbows down on the shiny wood of the desk, framing Credence’s head. He rolls his hips and pushes into him in long, languid strokes. Credence makes a soft, squeaky sound every time he bottoms out. “You doing okay, little trooper?”  
  
Credence giggles and twists his neck to look up at him. “Yes, Mr Graves.”

Merlin, Graves can’t hold himself back when this beautiful creature stares up at him like that. He picks up the pace and guiltily enjoys the way Credence’s body bounces against the desk. He goes harder, and Credence winces but moans. His eyelids flutter. He’s drooling on the desk. Merlin. _Fuck._

Outside, the Northern Lights dance and glow like ink in water. 

“Oh— _shit,_ ” Graves wraps his arms around Credence’s middle and folds over him, burying himself in to the hilt. Credence’s hole clenches around him as he comes. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“Mr Graves,” Credence pleads when he pulls out. His hand snakes down, skinny fingers wrapped awkwardly around himself. “I—”

“Nonsense,” Graves pants, and nudges his hand out of the way. He holds Credence close to his body, his chest to the boy’s back, and strokes him off in long, even pulls. Seconds later, Credence comes all over the desk with a short sob, going boneless and weak in Graves’ arms.

“I… I made a mess on your desk,” Credence mumbles when his breath finally settles. “I’m sorry.”

Graves shakes his head and vanishes the various fluids with a quick flick of his wrist. “You know it’s as easy as that, darling.”

“Yes, but the _idea_ of—”

“The idea of it is immensely arousing.”

“Ah, I — okay.” Credence says, a little dubious. His eyes flicker over to the now-clean surface as though he can still see a phantom image of his own sin. “Is this place like the White House for wizards?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

Credence looks up at him with a mix of apprehension and coyness. “You sodomized me in the wizard White House.”

“Quit saying that word. It’s called sex.” Graves sighs. “Now let’s go. I’m taking at least two weeks vacation before I set foot in this place again.” 

 

——————————————

When Mr Graves apparates them from the sidewalk outside of the government building, they don’t go straight home. Instead, they end up on the front porch of Tina and Queenie’s apartment. 

“I figured we owe them a visit,” Mr Graves says, and Credence thinks that’s about right, although he still feels sticky down there despite Mr Graves cleaning them with magic before they left. Tina answers the door quickly and her face goes bright and gleeful when she sees them. 

“Oh, Merlin, I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again!” She cries, and pulls Credence in for a hug. Newt and Queenie come up behind her and hug him as well. It’s a little overwhelming, everybody touching him at once, so he focuses hard on keeping his breath steady. Tina turns her gaze to Mr Graves and it’s blistering. “I’ve been in your fireplace all night, all _morning,_ I’ve been calling, I sent three owls—”

“Goldstein,” Mr Graves cuts her off, and his Director-voice makes even Credence tense up.“Once you hear everything that’s happened, you’ll understand why Credence needed a full night of sleep before we could even consider leaving the house or giving anybody an explanation.” He gives her a meaningful look and she sighs, softening. “We should sit down,” he continues. “We have a long story to tell.”

In Tina’s small living room, they crowd around on the armchairs and sofa, mugs of hot cocoa floating over with a wave of Queenie’s wand. There are only five people in the room, but it feels like fifty. One hundred. Credence’s head swims in numb panic. He looks up at the ceiling, which is pink like Queenie’s lips. Those lips are moving, speaking, maybe to him, but he isn’t sure. Everyone is talking over each other and he feels like he might cry.

Mr Graves is explaining that Grindelwald is dead because Credence killed him. Credence took out his wand and cast an Unforgivable Curse and _killed_ him. Mr Graves’ voice sounds very far away. He closes his eyes and watches the fuzzy red-orange-pink glow dance on the back of his eyelids. Their voices grow louder and louder and they all blend into an awful, discordant sea of words like _obscurus_ and _dead_ and _avada_ and _cursed_ and _defence —_

He’s six years old again, the only year he went to school, overhearing the teachers’ urgent, hushed voices discuss the bruises on his arms, badly hidden by his too-short sweater sleeves. He’s twelve, hiding behind a rickety doorframe to listen in on Ma’s conversation with the police officers who brought him home when they found him blue-lipped and soaking wet, holding out his flyers in aching hands on a street corner in the rain. He’s eighteen, a wisp of dark nothing floating out from the train tracks while the wizarding government officials and not-Mr-Graves and Tina and Newt all debate whether or not he deserved to die.

He doesn’t have a voice. He can’t find it.

It doesn’t matter, because nobody ever hears him anyway. They all sit and they talk about him like he’s a child, like he isn’t there, and they make their decisions and they evaluate his face and his body and his words and he’s nothing but blood and bone and negative space. A body, deconstructed. He wants his obscurus back. He wants to be a shadow on the wall, a little storm cloud hovering above everybody’s heads. He wants Mr Graves to talk him down, gentle, coaxing, the way he always did before. Somebody says _what about Picquery_ and Mr Graves says _it’ll take some paperwork but it’s not like they’ll try him_ and Credence feels something bubbling up in the back of his throat, spit or blood or anger, he isn’t sure. The edges of his vision keep going blurry. The voices keep getting louder and louder and louder.

Credence makes a high, pained sound and everything stops.

“Credence?” Queenie’s voice comes from beside him. “Are you okay?”

“I didn’t know what to do,” he says softly. “I’m sorry. It was the only thing I could do.”

He keeps his eyes closed. His teeth grind together like gears in a machine, sawing off layers until he has nothing left but soft tissue and bone. He’s shaking. Twitching. Everything is embarrassing and everything hurts.

A hand comes down on his shoulder and he flinches violently. He nearly jumps off of the sofa.

“Credence, let’s go home.” 

It’s Mr Graves. He shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut, and wills him to go away. To stop touching him. His breath comes into his throat sharp and cold like he’s breathing winter wind, the kind that made his lungs feel like they were on fire when he had to hold his flyers in the dregs of January. He thinks he might drown in the air, flop onto the floor, mouth gaping uselessly like a fish. 

He wants to bite his knuckles until they bleed. He wants to smash his head against the brick wall until his brain fizzles like a burnt-out light bulb.

“You’re panicking, Credence. It’s okay. I’m going to take you home now.”

“ _No,_ ” Credence says. “No. I’m fine. Please stop touching me.”

“It’s okay, Credence, you—”

“No it’s not,” Credence sobs, and his voice is weak and shrill and whispery, barely a sound past a pitiful whistle. Catching on air. His face crumples like paper when he cries. “Because I killed him and I killed other people too and the government wants to lock me up, President Picquery said so, and she thinks I should go to jail and you don’t care and you made me disrespect the building it was sinful it was _bad—_ ”

“Credence, what are you talking about?” Oh, no. Oh, no no no. That voice he loves goes sharp at the edges. It's enfolded in a bed of static. Intermittent signal. Bad connection. Bad. “What do you mean I _made_ you?”

He doesn’t want to think about everybody’s faces right now. Their expressions. He already has a hard enough time understanding them, reading them, figuring out what they mean. Knowing when somebody is being mean on purpose, or when they’re just poking fun. 

He can picture them in his head: Tina will look wide-eyed and stunned the way she often does, her lips apart and the tips of her teeth showing, a little bit like an animal that’s been caught off guard. Startled, but ready for a fight. Newt will have his head bowed, disappearing behind the flop of orange-brown hair that falls like a curtain over his eyes. Queenie will look a little scared and a little sad, the way she always does when Credence says anything about his past.

And Mr Graves.

He can’t let himself think about that. He doesn’t let himself look.

Mr Graves is embarrassed. He knows that without looking. Embarrassed of Credence’s loud crying and his snotty, drooling face and his hunched, twitchy body. Embarrassed of his jumbled words and headlight eyes and the fact that he can’t read the newspaper headlines or add up the numbers that President Picquery tells him. He doesn't want to be embarrassing. He wants to go home. He wants to stay here and have Queenie read all the bad thoughts from his head and hold him anyway. He wants to explode into a million tiny pieces and never return to his body. He’s so ungrateful and pathetic and dumb. A weakling. A baby. He stumbles through life and knocks himself into anything that will love him because the only language he knows is clumsy desperation.

He doesn’t realize his hands are clawing at his knees until Mr Graves gently pries them off. They shake terribly but Mr Graves holds them still.

“I’m sorry, Credence,” Tina says from somewhere on the other side of the room. “We should have let you explain.”

“Nobody blames you, Credence,” Newt offers hopefully. “We’re all so glad that you’re alive, and that you were the one to take him down. You deserved that.”  
  
“You’re a hero, sweetie.” Queenie is next to him. Her voice is close. Her breath on his ear, just like when he curled up beside her while she read to him on this very same sofa that day. When all he wanted was for her to pick him up and be his mother. He would still like that, he thinks, and then he grinds his teeth down again when he remembers she can hear him. If she's listening, she doesn’t say a word about it.

“Tina,” Credence says suddenly. He looks up. He was right: she does look like a startled animal, round-eyed and gaping. “Will you take me to get a glass of water, please?”

She blinks at him for a moment.

“I’ll take him,” Mr Graves says quickly, but Credence shakes his head.

“I want to go with Tina.”

“Of course,” Tina says. He follows her to the kitchen and doesn’t let himself glance at Mr Graves or Newt or Queenie.

Tina fills a glass with water and hands it to him. Then she crosses her arms and watches him, almost nervous. Tina is tall: the same height as he is, and taller if he’s slouching. Which he is right now. He likes when people are taller than him. He wants to disappear. His shoulders hunch up past his chin and he sips the water. His mouth tastes metallic.

“What’s going on?” Tina’s tone is even. Gentle in a slightly practiced way. She doesn’t have Queenie’s natural maternal softness, but she’s kind, and a little bit more practical. Besides, this way he can actually choose the words he wants to say instead of her picking them out of his head like names from a hat. _Up next in Credence’s thoughts, we have… obsessive rumination about the scars on his hands! Panic! Trauma! Mr Graves’ naked body!_

Tina clears her throat quietly. Credence startles.

“Um,” he says. He keeps his voice low. “I’m sorry, Tina. For causing a scene in your home.”

She shakes her head. “No, Credence, it’s fine. Are you okay?”

“Grindelwald used Crucio on me for a really long time,” he says. The words fall out of his mouth like dominos toppling into each other. Too fast. Stumbling. “I lied to Mr Graves about it. I don’t like lying. I’m not good at it.”

She tilts her head. “Why don’t you tell him the truth?”

“He hurts for me,” Credence whispers. He blinks back the tears that come without warning. “I don’t want him to hurt for me.”

Tina chews on her lower lip. Her gaze darts back toward the living room where the low murmur of voices seeps out like smoke. “Listen, Credence…”

“Promise you won’t tell him,” Credence says. “I just had to say it out loud.”

She studies him for a moment but then finally nods. “Okay. I won’t tell him. But I think that you should. Do you want some more water?”

Credence looks down at the glass in his hands. Empty. He doesn’t remember drinking it. “No, I’m okay.”

He’s about to turn back, but she catches his arm.

“Your scar,” she says. “Is it gone?”

“Um.” His hands float up to the collar of his shirt. He fumbles with the buttons and opens it down to where his new scar stands out in bright silver-pink. He tries to decipher her face, to figure out what she’s thinking. She stares at the scar for a long moment.

“Is that Percival’s patronus?”

He doesn’t answer, just looks at her anxiously.

“I hope he’s taking care of you.”

“He is,” Credence says quickly. “I asked him to — to do this. I didn’t want us to have to think about _him._ I wanted it to be something better. The owl saved my life.”

Tina takes him by surprise when she hugs him. They stay there for a very long time. It’s quiet, and a little bit awkward, but it feels nice. Credence likes being hugged.

“If you need anything…” she starts, but she’s interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. A man’s voice comes through it, rather boistrous and loud, saying something about chocolate croissants. It must be Jacob, the baker. Queenie’s boyfriend. Mr Graves told him bits and pieces about the delicate circumstances: no-majes aren’t supposed to be friends with wizards, and they especially aren’t supposed to be lovers. They aren’t even supposed to know about magic. Mr Graves said he lets it slide and doesn’t report them because Queenie looks after Credence so much. Credence wanted to tell him that men aren’t supposed to love other men either, but they’re still doing it. He kept his mouth shut instead.

Jacob is still standing in the doorway when they go back into the living room. His face lights up at the sight of them.

“Tina! Credence! It’s Credence, right? Jacob Kowalski.” He goes to shake Credence’s hand, but Credence starts, eyes sliding from Jacob’s face to the one that appears from behind him. 

“Nagini,” he whispers, and his heart breaks and reforms all at once. 

She steps out from behind Jacob. Without the heavy makeup and flashy costume from the circus, she looks much smaller. She’s wearing a plain black dress and her hair is still pulled up into a wild halo above her head. Her hands are clenched at her sides.

He crosses the room in a few quick steps and wraps himself around her. Her hand floats up instinctually to the back of his head and she presses her face into his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and his voice is half-sob and half-whimper, like he’s going to melt down entirely at any moment. He wishes he could find more words, but none could do any justice to his remorse. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m so glad you’re alive.” He’s missed the softness of her voice. He lets himself cry and feels her shaking too, one hand clutching tight at his back.

When he pulls back, he just stares, wiping at his eyes.

She gives him a watery smile. “Your hair looks nice like that.”

He reaches up and runs a hand through his soft curls. “Thank you,” he says. "You look beautiful." And then again, “I’m so sorry. I never should have left you there, I was so selfish, I was so stupid—”

She shakes her head and takes one of his hands in both of hers. “I understand, Credence. I’m just glad you made it home.”

Her words strike some strange, tender part of him that makes him start to cry again, in earnest now, because he never gave much thought to the concept of _home_ until now. The church was not home. Ma was not home. The circus certainly wasn’t. In his time with Grindelwald, the man always insisted that Nurmengard was Credence’s home, and maybe he tried to force himself to feel it, but it never quite worked. But now, here, with Mr Graves… 

Something clicks and reminds him that he’s in a room full of people. He turns quickly to find them all rather teary-eyed.

“Mr Graves, this is Nagini,” he says. He still doesn’t look the man in the eyes. He knows his behaviour earlier was unacceptable — a scene like that would have cost him dinner for a week, back at the church. Hands torn to shreds. Sheets stained through from his bleeding back. Mr Graves won’t hit him, he knows that. They’ll have a _conversation,_ which is almost worse. “She… she’s my best friend. She saved me when I went to Paris.”

“Credence has told me a lot about you,” Mr Graves says. “Thank you for looking after him.”

Nagini gives Credence a questioning look and he glances at Mr Graves.

“Mr Graves is… he’s my…”

“Partner,” Mr Graves says, at the same time as Credence says, “Boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Credence says, and then he starts to giggle. It feels like rain. A slow wash of relief. Queenie joins in, and then Mr Graves shakes his head and suddenly they’re all laughing, because the reassurance makes it all so much funnier.

“He’s handsome,” Nagini whispers, squeezing Credence’s hand. Credence ducks his head to hide his shy smile.

“So are you staying here? In America?”

“I’m going back to Europe,” she says. Her voice is lit up with a kind of nervous excitement that she never had back in Paris. “I work with the beasts in Newt’s home. I look after them while he’s away. He’s been doing research to find a cure for the blood curse.”

“Oh!” Credence exclaims, turning to Newt. “Do you think you’ll… do you think there’s a cure?”

“There’s always a way,” Newt says. “It’s just a matter of finding it.”

“I’ll come back to visit sometime,” Nagini promises. “Or you can come visit me in London.”

“It might be nice to get away,” Mr Graves agrees. “You could use a vacation, sweetheart.”

Credence feels pleasantly lightheaded at the way Mr Graves so easily calls him these names in front of everybody. Sweetheart. His _partner._ Nagini grips his hand again and then leans her face against his shoulder.

“Promise me,” she says softly. “We can write letters. But promise me you’ll visit.”

“We do have to get going,” Newt says apologetically. “We’ll be in London before sunrise tomorrow. I’ll come back in New York by the end of the week, once we’ve got everything settled with the new creatures. We’ve found a couple new friends along the way.”

He and Nagini exchange a knowing smile and Credence thinks his heart just might burst right out of his chest. They say their goodbyes, and then he clutches tight to Mr Graves’ arm to be apparated home.

The house feels very quiet after the chaos at Tina’s. Credence can almost hear the air shift around him. Mr Graves goes straight to the bedroom to get changed and Credence slinks around the living room, heart thudding so hard he can feel it in his throat. He tries to swallow it down. It hurts.

He stands by the fireplace and stares into it. He imagines somebody popping into it suddenly, face licked with green flame, the way Queenie had when they were still in Austria. Do people sometimes call unannounced and scare their friends? Does Tina ever pop into this fireplace while Mr Graves is drinking his evening tea and startle him out of his seat?

The fireplace has a marbled ledge along the top. It’s dusty, and Mr Graves hasn’t put anything on it. No little gifts or cards or souvenirs, the things he’d always imagined might sit on a ledge like this. There was a fireplace at the church, but Ma never put it on. Fire is the Devil’s element. Fire like the pits of Hell, where he’ll surely end up. If you’re cold, Credence, put your hands on the stove. In fact, I’ll do it for you if I hear you complain again. The one time she did, Credence screamed loud enough to wake the Devil himself.

“Credence?”

He spins on his heel and comes face to face with Mr Graves. He looks much softer now, in a sweater and comfortable pants. His face is etched with a confusing medley of exasperation and sympathy.

“I’m sorry,” Credence says immediately. Instinct. His hands twitch at his sides, itching to be held out before him, palms up. He knows how to take his punishments with grace. He doesn’t know how to have a conversation like this. Mr Graves would never put his hands on the stove, but Ma would never make him explain all his confusing feelings, so maybe it’s all the same in the end.

“Come sit down,” Mr Graves says. He steers Credence over to the sofa and sits beside him, keeping a reassuring hand on the nape of his neck. “I need you to talk to me, Credence.”

“I’m sorry,” Credence says. A broken record. A child. He frowns. “Everyone was talking and it was just… too much.” He shrugs helplessly and Mr Graves sighs.

“You said I made you have sex with me in my office.”

Credence shifts in his seat. “I didn’t _say—_ ”

“You did,” Mr Graves interrupts. “Credence, if you’re ever uncomfortable or in pain or upset you have to _tell_ me. I’m not Queenie, okay? I can’t read your mind. And I never want to force myself on you in any way. Just knowing that you felt—”

“I didn’t!” Credence says. His head spins, verging on hysterical. “I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was saying. I don’t know what happened to me. I couldn’t breathe.”

“You were panicking. Listen, Credence, I love you. I love you very much and I’m trying so goddamn hard—”

Credence flinches. “Please don’t shout at me,” he whispers.

Mr Graves closes his eyes and breathes through his mouth for a moment. In, out. In, out. Credence watches from under his eyelashes, still clumped together with tears like little spiderlegs. Nowhere in his puny brain can he find a frame of reference for this. There’s nothing else he knows how to say.

“I’m sorry,” Mr Graves says at length. “I didn’t mean to shout. I just need to know that you’re okay, and that you aren’t having second thoughts about any of this.”

“I’m not,” Credence says quietly. “I promise.”

“Okay.” Mr Graves kisses his temple. “Take a nap, you look exhausted. I have some work to go over. I’ll wake you for dinner.”

Credence’s eyes are barely staying open at this point. He curls up on the couch, making himself as small as possible, the big wool blanket wrapped tight around him, cheek pushed up against an uncomfortable throw pillow. He really doesn’t mind, but Mr Graves slips a soft pillow from their bedroom underneath him instead, and he loves him even more for it.

 

——————————————

 

Seraphina stops by around six o’clock, when Credence is still napping peacefully. Since the moment he fell asleep, Graves has been milling about, keeping Credence within his line of sight at all times, a silencing charm erasing his footsteps from the quiet of the house. He gestures to the blanketed Credence-shape on the sofa as she comes inside. Her sharp look softens slightly when she glances over.

“He’s had a long couple of days,” Graves says.

“I would imagine,” Seraphina murmurs. “I don’t even want to ask about your intentions with this boy.”

“Very much legal and not at all your business.”

She sighs. “Where is the portkey?”

He leads her into the kitchen where the box lays on the floor by the cabinets, in the same place he dropped it upon apparating back home last night. He’s effectively avoided going anywhere near it since then. It taunts him silently with its power over the boy he loves. 

Seraphina crouches and tilts her head to inspect the thing. Then she draws her wand and waves it slowly overtop. The magic seeps out like light and fog, leaving the box looking slightly duller than before.

“It should be safe to touch,” she tells him, and then straightens up. “I’ve been told a certain friend of yours has been quite adamant about becoming Credence’s tutor.”

Graves arches a brow. “Friend of mine?”

“Newt Scamander. That insufferable beast tracker from London.”

This is certainly the first Graves has heard of that. “Adamant, you say?”

“Showing up at MACUSA, trailing along with Goldstein like a lost puppy.” Seraphina raises one brow. “He’s a decent wizard, I’m told, but he’s more adept with magical creatures than human beings. And he isn’t employed by us, of course, so that’s another matter.”

Merlin, why hadn’t Graves thought of this himself? Newt is a perfect fit. Credence is a strange little creature, and there aren’t many souls in this world that Graves would trust to care for him. Newt’s patience and penchant for vulnerable things is just what he needs. 

“Newt’s very gentle. I think he’d be a good fit.”

“If that’s what you want, that’s fine with me. The only issue is that he’s not employed by the Congress, and so he can’t be reimbursed through any of our—”

“I’ll pay him,” Graves waves a hand at her. “Don’t worry about that. I only wish I could enroll him in some kind of school just to help with his reading.”

“Reading?”

“He doesn’t know how to read. Didn’t, I mean. He’s been doing very well. I’ve been trying to teach him but half the time I don’t think I’m cut out for it.”

“He’s a little old for school, Percival.”

Her voice is kind, and not at all judgemental. He feels his shoulders relax, bleeding out the tension that he hadn’t known was there to begin with. 

“I’m sure we’ll work it all out. Thank you for everything, Seraphina.”

“Be careful,” she says, and then she disapparates in a twist of dark smoke.

He removes the silencing charm and goes to the living room to wake Credence. The boy stretches and grumbles and blinks a few times before he seems to register his surroundings.

“Oh.” His voice is soft with sleep. “Good morning.”

“Good evening,” Graves says, amused. “It’s nearly six thirty.”

“Time for bed,” Credence gives him the sleepiest smile, heavy-eyed like a newborn puppy.

“You can go to bed if you’d like. I thought you might want to open the box.”

That wakes him much faster. He props himself up on wobbly arms, tongue poking out to lick around his dry lips. “Did President Picquery come?”

“Yes, she saw you sleeping. I think she thought you were pretty cute.”

Credence flushes a deep pink. He sits up and rubs at his eyes with clenched fists. “Where is it?”

“I’ll go get it.”

On his way to the kitchen, Graves contemplates throwing the box out the window. When he gets there and sees it, still laying smugly on the kitchen floor, he tries to gauge whether or not he could do so without making a sound. He picks it up and traces the golden latch with his thumb. He should have abandoned it on the forest floor. He should have left well enough alone. Credence wouldn’t have blamed him, and they could have moved forward without this unknown revelation looming over their heads.

But he couldn’t do that to Credence.

He’s desperate for a story. Graves can’t deny him that; he has the privilege of a family tree, never left to wonder where he came from. And here he stands, clutching the entirety of Credence’s past in his hands, the same hands that hold the boy himself, that have held him through every night for the last four months. He’s unbearably selfish. He wants Credence all to himself.

If he has a mother out there, a real mother — well. Graves pushes the thoughts away. His heart feels raw and tender as he carries the box to the living room. If Credence wants to leave, that’s his right.

_Have a little bit of faith,_ he reminds himself. _Don’t be so distrustful._

Credence is sitting up when Graves returns, cross-legged on the sofa. His face is patient and peaceful, practiced, as though he’s coached his expression away from any traces of anticipation. But Graves can still hear Credence’s heart beating double-time to his own.

He sits down beside him and clears his throat, setting the box down on the coffee table. “Before we open it, I just need you to know something.”

“What is it?” One of Credence’s hands taps anxiously against his knee. Graves takes it in his own to steady it, but his skinny fingers still work nervously even as Graves strokes them. Baby soft. Paper knuckles. Credence looks so small.

He could destroy the box right now. He could lock it with his strongest wards so Credence will never get it open. He could take this from him. He could say _I’m sorry, Credence, but I already opened it and there’s nothing, nobody, nowhere for you to go. You have to stay here with me. You have to stay._

But he looks into Credence’s moon-eyes and sleepy face and he can’t. He just can’t.

“I know you’ve been looking for this for so long, and I know that nothing I can say will change how important it is to you.”

Credence nods. His expression doesn’t waver. Graves hesitates before he continues.

“It’s okay to want answers, and I’m proud of you for everything you’ve gone through to find them. But Credence, whatever is in that box, it doesn’t matter. I mean, it matters, of course, but…”

Graves trails off with a frustrated sigh. He works his mind around his next words, but no matter which way he turns they always feel wrong.

“Go on,” Credence says softly. “I’m listening.”

Graves gives him a little smile and squeezes his hand tighter.

“Whatever is in that box, it doesn’t change the man you are today. You are a good man, compassionate and kind and gentle, but also so strong. So powerful. You are a better man than I am, better than most that I know. You’ve come from so much horror and yet it hasn’t tainted your soul, not a single bit.” Graves leans in closer, lips ghosting over Credence’s. “I would know. I’ve seen it.”

Credence shivers a little bit and tips his face forward, silently begging to be kissed. Graves will never, could never deny him, and their mouths meet warm and open and slow, with all the sweetness in the world, a kind of quiet hunger. If this is the last kiss they ever share, it will be a perfect one. He takes Credence’s face in his hands and smooths his thumbs over sharp cheekbones.

“My soul is yours,” Credence says quietly. “And yours is mine. It’s with me forever now.”

His hand floats up to touch his chest, right under his throat, where the owl is scarred red and striking into his skin. Graves’ hand follows and trails across the raised lines of the image, eyes and beak and feathers. Credence’s heart pushes eagerly against the walls of his chest.

“Where you came from is irrelevant,” Graves says. “The man you are today is who you were always meant to be. Nothing can ever change that. Nothing can take that away from you.”

Credence looks up and Graves is faced with the endless dark of his eyes. Only inches away, they stare at each other, and Graves starts to feel like he’s been cracked in two, split down the middle, everything pouring out of him and into Credence’s hands.

Without looking away, not even for a second, Credence whispers, “ _Reducto._ ”

In his peripheral, Graves watches as the box crumbles into ash, and then even that vanishes. All the while, Credence keeps his eyes locked on him. He feels his own eyes filling with tears but Credence just stares and looks almost curious, as if he’s wondering what happens next. Graves blinks once, letting the tears well up and drip slowly down his face.

“I don’t want to know,” Credence says finally, in a very small voice. “I want to be here with you.”

Graves presses a hand to Credence’s cheek and wonders if he’ll ever stop wanting to crawl inside his head and drink in every thought. He always thought he’d meet his end in some monumental war, fighting on behalf of the wizarding world, maybe killed in cold blood by a dark wizard the likes of Gellert Grindelwald. Deep in the wrecks of a world he swore to protect, ripped apart by the killing curse, soul in bright-white shreds that float up into the stratosphere. Lately, though, he’s starting to think that the end of him could look much softer: a boy, quiet and gentle, with misty eyes and a surprisingly deadly trigger finger and a heart that won’t ever quit.

 

——————————————

 

They go to dinner to celebrate, just the two of them.

Back to Tesoro, where they went out to eat for the very first time, where Credence always orders the same pesto gnocchi, even though Graves tells him he can have whatever he wants on the menu. _I like it the best,_ he insists, and Graves doesn’t argue. 

Tonight, he pokes at it with his fork, barely eating a bite.

“Is something wrong?” Graves covers Credence’s hand with his own on the table top. The candle between them flickers, casting fuzzy orange shadows across Credence’s pensive face. 

After what he’s been through the past few days, Graves has to allow him some leeway. That doesn’t stop him from being concerned, though. And if Credence feels that he made the wrong decision incinerating that box… well.

“Are you going to find me an apartment?”

Graves feels a dull pang in his belly. Static in his ears. He closes his eyes and his hand flexes over Credence’s unintentionally. The boy pulls his hand away.

“Do you want me to?”

When he opens his eyes again, Credence is shifting uncomfortably in his seat, fork still stabbing little gnocchi balls and then scraping them off against the side of his dish. Over and over — _Stab. Scrape. Stab_. Graves wants to yank the fork out of his hand. Force Credence to meet his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Credence says, and it’s so soft and sad and Graves doesn’t _understand._

“Credence,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady. _Stab. Scrape._ The fork screeches on the plate. Credence flinches, pauses. _Stab._ “ _Credence._ ”

Graves reaches out and grabs Credence’s hand. The fork freezes in mid-air, pasta speared through with two prongs. _Little potato balls,_ Credence calls them, ever since Graves described them that way the first night. Credence’s fingers are shaking where they grip the handle. He gapes at Graves, eyes wide, the reflection of the candleflame dancing in dark pupils. Graves gets a hold of himself and lets his hand go. Credence does not continue stabbing and scraping. He sets his fork down and folds his hands in his lap.

“Do you want me to get you an apartment?”

It’s as though the past two days didn’t even happen. Graves feels his head start to spin with the weight of it all. He never should have agreed to have sex with him, Merlin, he’s so _stupid._ Credence is obviously too young, too vulnerable, too traumatized. He wasn’t ready. Graves was too aggressive. Too pushy.  _You made me. You made me._ Those awful three words reverberate in the unforgiving dome of his skull, growing louder with each passing moment. He took advantage of him. He told him that his past is meaningless and let him make the rash decision to destroy every trace of it. 

His guilt is a seed in the pit of his stomach and it grows into something awful. Suffocating. They said _I love you._ They said it. In fact, Credence just said it half an hour ago as they kissed outside of the restaurant. Does that mean nothing?

He watches Credence’s eyes lose focus and all at once he slips away. To somewhere else. To nowhere. Graves has learned patience, has learned that it often isn’t easy to stay present when the present hasn’t always been a safe place for Credence to be. But it grows increasingly difficult not to ask Credence where he goes.

Instead, he picks up his glass and takes a sip of his wine and watches the boy expectantly. Credence seems to snap out of it at the sudden motion.

“I just thought…” He clears his throat, hands coming up to toy with the edge of his silky cloth napkin. “I know you didn’t mean it, but if you’re tired of… I mean, I—”

“Credence,” Graves breathes. “ _No._ ”

Credence tilts his head. “What?”

“No, I’m not tired of you.” Graves reaches for his hand again, and this time Credence gives it up willingly. “Never, sweetheart. I'm so sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I want… well, I want you to live with me for good. Forever. If that’s what you’d like to do.”

Credence’s eyes widen and go a little glossy. “Really?”

Graves squeezes his hand. “Really.”

“Even though I’m—”

“ _Because_ you’re you.” His voice is firm, but the hand that strokes Credence’s is gentle. “Because of everything about you. There’s nothing I could grow tired of. I want all of you with me, always. And I know you already live with me but I thought I should ask you, just to make it official.”

He offers Credence a little smile, which is mirrored back to him ten times brighter.

“You can still have your own room,” Graves adds quickly. “I think you should. We can put your things in there — your clothes and your books, whatever else you’d like. In case you need your own space.”

“I don’t—”

“Hey,” Graves cuts him off gently. “Just in case.” He waves his hand over Credence’s plate, surreptitiously re-heating the pasta for him. “Now please, eat your dinner. It’s certainly been stabbed enough.”

Credence smirks at him, a rather beautiful flush creeping its way up his angular cheeks. He finishes every bite of his food, like he’s making a statement, though Graves knows full well his stomach will ache with the effort of it.

They take the long way home, walking not hand-in-hand but close enough that their fingertips brush with every other step. Whenever they do, Credence gives him a furtive smile as though they’re concealing some spectacular secret.

And maybe they are.

It’s funny, how this all started. When Tina stopped him on the MACUSA steps that day he'd been ready to toss her aside with a flick of his wand. Whenever he’s suddenly reminded of his hesitance to go find Credence in the first place, his easy dismissal of the boy, his stomach twists in knots and he squeezes Credence tight until he squirms, laughing his quiet laugh, saying _Mr Graves, what are you doing?_

He never answers, just holds him, because that’s enough. 

They’ve nearly made it home, though it’s taken much longer than it should have, because Credence insists on kissing him under every streetlight they pass. The yellow light falls in a soft haze on his beaming face, and Graves notices for the first time that his cheeks aren’t so hollow anymore, the line of his jaw softer and less harsh. He cups Credence’s cheek, and then the boy is giggling and pulling him onto the sidewalk, eyes wide and star-bright and he kisses him like a prayer, like a miracle, and anybody could see them but it doesn’t matter. If Graves ever thought he could live without this, he must have been out of his mind.

And maybe all the excitement is over, and everybody knows how it ends, and there’s no mystery left, but it doesn’t matter. He still feels lucky. Maybe he won’t go hurling his body into wandfire, maybe he won’t ever find himself slaying devils in the dark underbelly of the world again, but he’s come to realize that being the hero is useless with nobody to save, and Credence just might be the only thing worth saving anyway. 

Credence presses him to the concrete pole of the streetlight, two flat palms against his chest, and Graves thinks that maybe sometimes it’s okay to just stay still. He resists the urge to speak, to slaughter the poetry of it all. He just lets Credence kiss him, and he doesn’t mind that the air is cold and stained with the words of thousands of lovers that came before them — because they’re here right now, and that’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sad that this story is over!! a few notes:
> 
> \- i did a (very quick very rough) little sketch of what credence's scar would kinda look like now. [here it is!](https://66.media.tumblr.com/21624ca59352460d0231504b3a4c8769/tumblr_pmj6icJrpD1w3hbuko1_1280.jpg)  
> \- i know that in the movie tina and queenie's apartment is very open concept but we're gonna pretend they have a separate kitchen where tina and credence went for their little talk  
> \- i read that there were $10k rewards for wanted criminals back in the 1920s/30s. 10k back then was like 150k now, so credence is doing pretty well!  
> \- this couldn't be a fix-it without making sure nagini is happy and safe and living her best life. i think mr graves and credence will be taking a nice long vacation to london sometime soon to spend time with her and newt and all his creatures <3
> 
> thank you all so much for your comments and messages, they mean the world to me! i know this last chapter is a long one and i'm so sorry haha. i hope it's the ending you all wanted <3
> 
>  
> 
> [here's the tumblr post for this chapter!](https://cannibalteacups.tumblr.com/post/182623619120/little-beast-complete-77k-credence)


End file.
